


chase the stars

by Duskglass



Category: Harry Potter (books)
Genre: (ie: the dursleys are awful & so was sirius's childhood), Canon Divergence, Fix-It, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Azkaban, Remus and Sirius adopt Harry, Sirius & Remus live, Sirius escapes from Azkaban, do not repost to other sites/apps, dogfathers, flashbacks to marauders era, general cw for ptsd & mental illness, illustrated fic (mobile-friendly), mentioned child abuse, slow-burn, wolfstar
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2020-07-28 07:04:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 62,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20059978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duskglass/pseuds/Duskglass
Summary: It's probably the most foolish, reckless,dangerousthing Sirius Black has ever done in a lifetime of foolish and reckless and dangerous things... but he takes one look at Harry and knows it's the only choice he can make.(or: 'sirius escapes azkaban early & accidentally kidnaps harry' au)





	1. run with the hunted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey so I have no idea where this came from!! the urge to write this story really just flew straight out of the past to kick me directly in the teeth, Twelve Whole Years after I thought I'd moved on from this series, because apparently I never actually _did_ get over Sirius Black dying (and I'm an irredeemable sucker for survived!AUs & Queer Dads). hopefully this one's as fun for you as it's been for me to write! :D   
[ all illustrations are my own; please DO NOT repost any part of this work to other sites or apps ]

#### { chase the stars }

In a fortress on a desolate rocky outcropping in the middle of the sea, caught between the cold indifferent stones and the crashing of the tides, the prisoner dreams.  
  
_He was once much smaller-- he's four, five, six, curled up tiny and weak and wretched on bare cold stone. Mother shrieks at him; Father puts a hand on her arm and says He Will Learn, each word clipped and cold. The door closes; he's alone in the dark. Again, again, he finds himself here; he pleads and begs but his cries only ever fall on deaf ears so he swallows them down, folds them deep into himself. Alone, alone, no one to listen, to hold him; he sees the truth burnt into the blind heavy darkness, tastes it upon the bitter stones. He learns, but never the lessons they were trying to teach._  
  
_ He was small then but his brother was smaller, even to his child's eyes-- he looks into that face like he's looking in a mirror, and knows he'd sooner face the dark himself than see those eyes stricken with terror-- he was once the same, alone, afraid; they don't have to be the same now. He's six, seven, eight, and he learns to lie, bleeds long hours into the stones in the dark. He tells himself you are strong, you know nothing here can hurt you, better you than him. He tempers himself to something hard and cold; he lies and he learns to fight. He thinks maybe they're not alone, maybe they can be strong together-- he believes this until he's twelve and home for the summer and his brother looks at him with cold eyes just like Mother's and he knows, he knows, he fought but it was for nothing, once again he is alone._  
  
_ He's twenty and his first brother is dead at eighteen and he hasn't seen or heard Mother in years but her screaming echoes in the space between his ears all the same, traitor and abomination. He says serves him right and doesn't go to the funeral he wasn't invited to anyway, but the guilt and shame writhe and twist like snakes in his guts and he knows this was half his fault too, that betrayals cut both ways._  
  
_ He's looking forward to a twenty-second birthday spent getting blind drunk with his best friend, his second brother, the family he chose and built for himself and loves with all he has; the End of October brings him to a then-unknown traitor's hideout and he finds it empty, deserted. The fear sinks its claws into him, wracks his body like a living thing; he rushes headlong into it and finds secrets laid bare, the warm little house in ruins, every part of it left open and exposed to the chill autumn night. He walks through the ruins of their lives, his brother dead at his feet, still warm under his own frozen fingertips; it feels like the end of the world._  
  
_ He runs and he hunts and he finds the Rat but he's not fast enough, never fast enough; he's covered in shattered pieces that were once human and he claws at broken rubble with his bare and bleeding hands and he's too late, too late, alone and betrayed and never strong enough never good enough, and he throws back his head and laughs--_  
  
_ He's sixteen and he's angry and he's utterly fed up with that slimy git going after their Moony; he's angry and he spits fragmented secrets and in the heat of the moment it doesn't feel like the indelible betrayal it is. He's sixteen and he knows what he did was unforgivable, knows he doesn't deserve to be trusted ever again; one of his closest friends won't speak to him and another refuses to look him in the eyes, and Moony (precious lovely beautiful Moony) tells them all to knock it off but can't possibly mean it can't possibly forgive and he's alone, alone, alone..._  
  
He wakes up on cold hard stone with a ragged scream tearing at his throat, his breath coming in quick shuddering gasps, and he almost wishes he hadn't woken at all.

  


* * *  
  


#### { run with the hunted }

The island fortress of Azkaban is, by all accounts, impossible to escape from. In all the centuries since the prison first came into use, no prisoner has ever left its walls except at the end of their sentence-- or as a corpse, to be buried in one of the lonely cold graves that line the outer courtyard. There are a lot of graves, unmarked and unvisited, the remains of once-notorious magical criminals left mouldering beneath the stones. No one can say that Azkaban is not highly effective in serving its purpose.  
  
Of course, there are some who would argue that deliberately subjecting a person to dementors is nothing short of torture, that such methods are outdated and have no place in Modern Wizarding Society-- but even the most well-meaning and kind-hearted Reformists can do little in the face of so perfect a record. The Ministry of Magic maintains that the dementors are an integral part of the prison's defenses (it has often been said that Azkaban hardly needs the walls or the sea, not when the prisoners are all trapped inside their own minds) and without its guards the risk of an escape would be far too great.  
  
And, really, there are so many prisoners within those walls whom no one in their right mind wants to take any risks with-- the ones serving life sentences for unspeakable crimes, the kiss-row inmates. In the end, it's easier to say that all of those sadistic Death Eaters and horrible mass-murderers deserve to live out the rest of their days in misery and despair, and the Reformists all find other less complicated injustices to speak out against. Easier to put the prison out of mind entirely as they go about their daily lives, leaving the convicts to their miserable fates.  
  
On that small barren island somewhere in the North Sea, within Azkaban's high cold walls, Sirius Black knows he has no right to be happy.  
  
The constant presence of the dementors serves as an inescapable reminder of all his most costly and unforgivable mistakes, everything he's ever done wrong-- the death of a friend who once embraced him as a brother, his subsequent failure to commit the murder he's been convicted of, another friend left month after month to face the rising moon alone. He's got no shortage of guilt, blood on his hands and the sort of regrets that threaten to devour him alive-- so he has no doubt that he deserves all of this.  
  
Spending every waking moment being assaulted by your worst memories can easily drive a person to insanity-- and for nearly all of Azkaban's inmates, it does exactly that. Sirius Black listens to his neighbours lose themselves to it, their screams and cries ringing against the unforgiving walls as they devolve into gibbering wrecks and hollow husks, as one by one they go silent. He watches when, occasionally, the bodies are carried out (it's starvation that gets them, usually, the ones who so thoroughly lose the will to live that they stop eating and waste away). Sirius endures it all, as uncountable days drag past, as the despair and self-loathing run endless circles about his mind, but he never forgets who he is or why he's there. The slow creeping insanity takes the Death Eaters and war criminals and cold-blooded murderers, but it can't get a hold on him.  
  
Here's the simple truth: dementors devour happiness and hope, but they cannot touch the _anger_, the white-hot burning rage that simmers deep inside him and refuses to be stamped out. The aurors and the Ministry officials whisper that it's some Dark Sorcery that allows him to resist the dementors, some proof of a deeply evil nature, but there's no trick to it.  
  
He's _furious_, with himself and with the world, but that's nothing new-- it's the same fury that carried him through the war, drove him forward and ground itself into his bones. Too many times he wasn't fast or clever enough, too many former classmates found dead or worse, too many innocents who were never given a chance to fight back (some hunted down like prey, others simply in the wrong place at the wrong time). Even in those days, _they_ stalked his nightmares, Bella's wild laughter and Cissy's icy disdain, Reg's quiet clever competence overlaying that unshakeable pride-- Sirius _fought_ with all he had, running at the robed and hooded figures with curses flying from his lips like venom (the first thing they tell you about curses is that _intent_ is vital-- you need to _want_ it, and he _did_, with every fibre of his being) but it was never _enough_.  
  
Sirius knows that he was a bloody conceited fool, guilty of the mistake that cost Lily and James Potter their lives, guilty of being taken in by the Rat and not reading the signs-- but at least he's not a Death Eater or a slimy backstabbing traitor; at least he never killed those muggles or sold his friends to Voldemort. For whatever it's worth (not very much, but it's _something_) at least he's innocent of the very worst things he's been accused of. Sirius Black has made a lot of disastrously stupid mistakes in his short and profoundly useless life, but he'd sooner kiss a dementor than betray a friend's trust.  
  
The bitter anger and spite are an anchor, a lifeline (and sometimes the small lingering corner of his mind that sounds a bit like Moony tells him _that's not healthy_ but he ignores it because thinking about Moony hurts far too much). Sirius isn't sure there's any point to it, but he holds on anyway, if only because giving up was never in his nature-- and when it feels like too much, when the walls are closing in on him and he's quite sure he can't take any more, he curls up in the corner as a dog (for whatever obscure magical reason, the dementors have less of an effect on his animagus form) and it's just enough to keep him sane. He's lucky, in some sense-- lucky dementors are blind, lucky that he was just the right combination of stupid and talented to pull off a secret animagus transformation at age fifteen, lucky it's a permanent sort of magic he doesn't need a wand for...  
  
Azkaban doesn't get many visitors, especially not in the top security wing where dementors linger outside every cell door at all times-- but every so often some ministry lackey will pass by with an escort of aurors and patronuses to ward off the worst of the creatures' influence. Sirius can always tell when they're coming (the dementors get antsy, eager at the prospect of lively new minds to feed on) so he's always alert and human-shaped when the visitors pass by his door-- he unsettles them, he can tell, more than any of the other prisoners.  
  
'You finished with that?' he croaks on one such visit, pointing a bony finger at a copy of the _Prophet_ tucked under the arm of some thin twitchy fellow (who squeaks and jumps at the words). 'I miss doing the crosswords, you see,' Sirius adds with an air of idle boredom, as though he's actually capable of remembering anything he once enjoyed (which he's not, really, but no one else has to know that).  
  
The pair of aurors glare at him and the ministry lackey sweats and cringes like Sirius is some sort of ghastly diseased thing, but the man is startled enough at being addressed that he hastily throws the paper over (as though he no longer wants anything to do with it now that Convicted Murderer Sirius Black has expressed an interest in it) and then the aurors hurry him along on his way.  
  
Sirius shrugs and picks the paper up. Whether or not he used to enjoy crosswords is a moot point anyway (he's got nothing to write with, after all) but it's more the novelty he's after, anything to break up the monotony of the prison... or if nothing else, he figures he can crumple it up for bedding, some meagre buffer between his bony sides and the cold damp stones of Azkaban. But in the meantime, he retreats to the least drafty back corner of his cell and flips the newspaper open-- and that's when he sees it.  
  
The photograph is blurry and grainy, a paparazzo's snapshot enlarged too many times over, printed alongside a tacky headline and sensationalised article-- but Sirius hardly glances at the words, has eyes only for the photo. There's a bony horsey woman with a long neck and shrewd suspicious gaze, and two boys of about four or five; the fat blond one clings to the woman's hand and appears to be loudly carrying on about something or other, but it's the skinny and dark one Sirius stares at like he's seen a ghost-- a boy trailing after the two blondes like a little shadow, draped in patchy hand-me-downs that could have fit three of him, and even in grainy black-and-white his unruly haircut is unmistakable, achingly familiar--  
  
_A Rare Glimpse of Harry Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World_, the headline reads, as if Sirius needed any further confirmation.  
  
...They're both _out there_, Sirius realises, feeling sick and cold in a way that (for once) has nothing to do with the dementors. The spineless traitor Rat, whom everyone conveniently thinks is dead, and little Harry, sent to live with Lily's muggle sister and her family (or at least that's what Hagrid had said, that awful predawn morning in Godric's Hollow before Sirius ran off to find the Rat). _Muggles_, who stand no chance of protecting him if the Rat decides to go after the last of the Potters, finish what he started... not that aurors would be much use either, as they'll be on the lookout for Dark Wizards, not one fat grey rodent with a missing finger.  
  
Sirius has always been reckless and impulsive at the best of times, often to the point of idiocy, and after years in Azkaban he's hardly at the best of anything. There's no real plan, nothing past _get out_\-- but his mind is clearer than it's been in years, his newfound Purpose burning away the haze.  
  
He's _not_ a traitor, and he's the only one who _knows_\-- the only one who might be able to stop Peter Pettigrew before it's too late.  
  
He couldn't save James and Lily, but he still has a chance to save their son.  
  
So Sirius watches with burning intensity as the days pass, as another moon comes and goes, and waits for an opening, the barest sliver of opportunity-- he's skin and bone, and even though Padfoot is quite a large dog he's just thin enough to slip out of his cell, past the hems of the dementors' swirling cloaks (lucky, once again, that they have trouble sensing him as a dog). Azkaban was built as a fortress, yet it's surprisingly easy to creep through the dank chilly corridors, past cell doors and vacant eyes whose owners are too incoherent to fully remember the skeletal black dog passing like some sort of ill omen (when questioned later, some will whisper _Grim_, and the aurors will click their tongues and shake their heads at what, surely, is no more than a delusion-- but Sirius isn't to know that, at least not until much later).  
  
Azkaban is surrounded by the North Sea, but Sirius's canine limbs remember the physical act of swimming even if his mind struggles to supply the context (he thinks there might have been at least one incident involving the giant squid at Hogwarts but he doesn't have the time or energy to wonder about it now) and in any case it's not like he's going to let a little bit of ocean stand in his way. Later, he'll probably wonder how he managed it without drowning his idiot malnourished self (there's the Moony-voice again) but in the moment he doesn't give a flying fuck about his own safety, and the single-minded determination keeps him going long past the time when his body probably should have given out. Like a wraith, some ghoulish spectre, hovering between the living and the dead...  
  
He makes it, but only just-- all but collapses the moment he hits land, drags himself up on the shore and makes only the most feeble attempt at shaking the water from his fur. He crawls into a tiny muggle fishing village (he's somewhere in the north of England, he thinks) and follows his nose to some bins at the back of a shitty pub, eats things he can only barely identify-- but he's starving, and it's not much worse than prison food anyway, and the dog part of him has never cared about that sort of thing. Being an animagus does that to you, they'd all found; it's easy to start thinking a bit like your animal, to let it creep over even when you're not transformed. So of course (the memory hits him suddenly, rising unbidden from the depths of his subconscious) he'd been the butt of many a joke about pissing on trees and sniffing arses, _fetch_ this or that, _come now Pads it's not nice to bite people_\-- they'd all have a good laugh to see him now, digging scraps out of bins like any common stray--  
  
Sirius whines, pushes those thoughts away as he curls up in the best bit of half-shelter he can find. Lily and James are dead, Wormtail's a spineless murdering weevil of a man, and Moony-- Moony surely hates his guts, thinks he's responsible for killing all three. It _hurts_, and the thought of Moony enduring his transformations month after month with no one to help ease the pain is an added layer of guilt on top of everything else... but Moony wouldn't thank him for trying to come back. He's sorry, _so sorry_, but he doesn't deserve forgiveness, never will...  
  
Usually, being Padfoot has helped calm him when he's upset-- makes everything feel simpler-- but it's not working this time. Maybe the wounds are too deep, too grievous, or maybe betrayal and rejection just aren't the sorts of things a dog could cope with any better (dogs do tend to be loyal and eager to please, after all).  
  
But there's no time to lie about feeling sorry for himself, no _point_, and he moves on soon as he has enough energy to stand, to walk-- he doesn't know how long he's got before word of his escape gets out, and even if his animagus form is still a secret he can't risk staying in one place... and in any case, he's got a Rat to hunt and a godson to watch over. As long as he's following his _purpose_, he can ignore all the rest.  
  
Sirius heads inland, and south, since between the two of them Harry will be much easier to find-- any trail Pettigrew might have left has long since gone cold by now, and Sirius can hardly check the front paws of every single rat in England for missing fingers (assuming Peter stayed in the country at all). But he remembers that Lily's sister lives in Surrey, so that's enough to give him a direction to start with, and he travels as swiftly as he can, to get as much distance as possible before news of his escape becomes public.  
  
Of course Sirius expected it would be front-page news across every reputable wizarding publication in the country (and most of the gossip rags too) but he never thought he'd see his name in a _muggle_ newspaper. So he gets a bit of a nasty shock (less than a week after his escape, in a small Yorkshire town, before he's even managed to find a copy of the _Prophet_); he's minding his own business and nosing around in a bin after something that smells only recently discarded (not even a little bit rotten, for once) when he finds himself staring at an eerily static image of-- _himself_, it takes a moment to realise-- what he might've imagined he'd look like as a vampire, some nightmarish variation on his features with waxy skin and sunken eyes and hollowed cheeks and a mass of ragged tangled dark hair that somehow makes his skeletal face even gaunter.  
  
In short, he looks exactly like the sort of deranged mass murderer he's accused of being. Sirius hasn't seen his reflection since before That Night (has hardly turned human-shaped at all since leaving his cell, only a couple very brief instances to pick up small useful items dropped in the street) but he can't say it _surprises_ him, and can't bring himself to care (for all that he was once a bit vain). No, he's more concerned with the fact that the muggles are apparently looking for him too, which will make this even harder...  
  
He tugs the paper down off the bin, flipping it open with a shake of his head, and peers down at the text. _Sirius Black, Murderer At Large_, it says, going on to mention the thirteen deaths and that he's supposedly 'armed and extremely dangerous', carrying something called a 'gun' (a sort of muggle weapon that shoots small projectiles, if he's remembering his Muggle Studies right). He's not armed, of course (fuck, he _wishes_ he had a wand, or failing that he'd even settle for a good knife) and he doesn't feel especially dangerous at the moment--  
  
'Mummy, look!' a high-pitched voice calls out, making him jump. 'That dog's reading a newspaper!'  
  
'Hush, Lucy, don't be ridic-- oh, _Good Lord_,' the muggle woman gasps, as Sirius looks up. 'Look at the size of that thing! I wonder if we ought to notify someone...'  
  
Sirius backs away, slipping down the alley (though not before snatching up the discarded sandwich he'd been after in the first place). He doubts any muggle pest-control could pose a real threat to him, but he doesn't want unnecessary trouble, or strange reports of large black dogs that might make it back to the wrong ears (a couple days later, he sneaks into York's magical district in the dead of night to scrounge up as many different editions of the _Daily Prophet_ as he can; he finds that the reporters are having a field day with his escape, but neither the papers nor the wanted posters in the shop windows contain any mention of black dogs, so at least that's not common knowledge).  
  
It's purely by chance that he finds himself near the tracks just south of York while a freighter inches past, also headed south-- and on a sudden impulse, he jumps up into one of the empty boxcars. As far as train rides go, it's loud and dusty and not at all comfortable (especially as the train picks up speed beyond the city limits) but it's also much faster than he could have hoped to travel on foot, and he'd gladly put up with far worse if he had to. This particular line is a straight shot towards London, as it turns out; he hitches rides as far as he dares (but circumvents the capital itself) and soon enough he's headed into Surrey.  
  
Of course, Sirius never had any reason to know exactly where Lily's muggle sister lives (hell, he never bothered keeping track of his _own_ estranged relatives-- though in all fairness, he rather doubts Petunia Evans ever did anything half as bad as Reg or Bella or Cissy after they all threw their lot in with the Death Eaters, and Lily had made at least some small effort to keep in touch with her one remaining relative). But Sirius has always had a knack for finding hidden or missing things even without magic (even before he had his animagus form's powerful senses) and more importantly he's _determined_.  
  
...Though if he's being honest he still has no idea what he's planning to do after he finds Harry. Stick around and play guard-dog, or try to get himself adopted as a pet? Find some way to... warn the muggles, somehow? But he can hardly do that as a dog, or expect them to react well to _Escaped Convict Sirius Black_ popping up on their doorstep (and that's saying nothing of how they'd take the news that a Literal Rat might show up at any time trying to murder their nephew-- _that_ sounds absurd, even by wizarding standards).  
  
James named him Harry's godfather; Sirius knows he's supposed to do _something_ because that's what godfathers are _for_ and that's what he swore when he agreed to it, but... hell, he's been sleeping in gutters and eating rubbish for the past several days, and the years in Azkaban feel like a nightmare he's only just started to wake up from, and he's one tiny misstep away from landing himself right back--  
  
Sirius pushes it all down, the bubbling panic he's constantly on the verge of falling into, the ever-present fear that _this_ is the dream and he'll wake up back on the cold stone floor of his cell-- if he lets himself stray from the moment, right here and right now, he knows he'll break down completely, never be able to pull himself back.  
  
But distractions are easy enough to find, in the end-- the countryside overflows with earthy green scents, and even when travelling at night he still takes care to keep out of sight (because big black dogs without owners or leashes are a bit too conspicuous) and he stays focused on his Mission, poring over stolen maps in search of the muggle town Lily might have mentioned once or twice, in distant mostly-forgotten conversations... in a distant past when Sirius didn't jump at sudden movements and loud noises, when he might've actually known what to _do_ (instead of just running blindly forward in the vain hope that he's picked the right direction and isn't charging headlong into another life-shattering mistake) but he's _trying_ and that's all he can hope for.  
  
Soon enough Sirius finds himself in the town of Little Whinging, under the street-sign for Privet Drive-- the neighbourhood is about as bland and muggle as it's possible to get (a fairly new development, with tidy rows of near-identical square boxy houses and smooth green lawns and neatly manicured hedges) and he feels like he's taken some odd turn and stumbled into a different world entirely--  
  
Until he sees the slender dark-haired boy pulling weeds outside Number Four, and there's no doubt he's come to the right place. Up close, Harry looks even more like he might've fallen straight out of the baby pictures James's parents had always kept up on the mantle (even as their son grew old enough to find such things embarassing) with the same wild black hair and knobbly scraped-up knees... but it's equally apparent that he's _not_ like James. Sirius can see that right away-- James grew up happy and loved, and a little bit spoilt (born to older parents who had longed for a child for a very long time, who were old enough that they were mistaken for his grandparents at times). James Potter was outgoing and confident and a touch arrogant, had loved being the centre of every room he entered.  
  
In that first _Prophet_ snapshot, Sirius had thought Harry looked like a little shadow, trailing after his horsey aunt and porky cousin. And it's clear now just how _right_ that was-- how he slips around like he's trying to be invisible, how he flinches when they so much as look at him, how he's light on his feet and always careful to stay out of arm's reach. Sirius sees it all, and he _knows_ what it means from the old deep scars that never quite went away (the scars Azkaban ripped open again) and it makes his blood boil because James and Lily's son should have grown up happy and loved and cherished and not-- not like _him_, not like he's something cursed and unwanted and _wrong_.  
  
Sirius supposes that muggles, just like wizards, must have good and bad sorts. And these particular muggles have got to be the worst ones in existence. So the thought of leaving Harry here is unbearable, makes him feel quite ill.  
  
...Which brings him back to the Problem. The Problem is that he's a bloody _fugitive_, and he hasn't the faintest idea how to go about being a parent even if he wasn't-- knows he's _broken_, that he's been steeped in anger and hate for so long that he's not sure he's got anything else left in him. These hell-muggles might even be on par with his own parents, but dragging a small child along with him on the run-- he can't see how that wouldn't be just as bad. Worse, maybe. When he thinks of little Harry forced to eat out of bins to survive, or what they'd do when winter hits and the temperature drops... not to mention what would happen if-- _when_\-- the dementors or aurors or Death Eaters catch up to them...  
  
Sirius whines and curls miserably under a hedge, and watches as he argues himself in useless circles, grasps for answers that may not exist. He doesn't have the faintest idea what to do-- never thought he could hurt _more_ than everything already heaped on him, but... here he is.  
  
He watches, and the feeling of helplessness is steadily replaced by quiet simmering rage as the hell-muggles demonstrate terrible new layers of neglect and abuse. He watches, until one afternoon when Harry and his horrid pig of a cousin are 'playing' some ways down the street from Number Four. He watches until Piggy goes at Harry and pins him down before he can get away and laughs nastily and _hits_ him, and--  
  
Sirius lunges from the shadow of a hedge, snarling viciously, and his jagged teeth close on a soft fleshy arm-- he truly doesn't _mean_ to bite hard, but Piggy screams and flails and tries to hit him in the face, and before he knows it there's blood spurting across the pavement. Sirius releases him just as fast, because the boy is obviously a horrid little prat but he's also just a _child_ and Sirius only wanted to _scare_ him, not--  
  
But then Piggy gets up, clutching the arm and running for home as fast as his short legs can carry him, screaming for his mum (so he's not _too_ badly hurt, at least) and Sirius promptly forgets him altogether when he sees Harry backed against a fence, eyes wide with fear.  
  
Sirius drops right where he stands, resting his head on his paws as he gives a contrite whine-- the scent of blood is still heavy on the air (it's probably smeared all over his face) and _fuck_ he'd probably be scared too but he doesn't want--  
  
They stay like that for a moment that seems to drag on forever, Sirius trying to look as small and nonthreatening as possible... and then Harry relaxes slightly. 'Were you... trying to help me, dog?'  
  
Sirius snuffles a little, ears perking up. He still doesn't get up, doesn't want Harry getting spooked again.  
  
'That's kind of you, really, but that's just how Dudley is,' says Harry, with an odd sort of nonchalance that makes Sirius's stomach twist--  
  
Sirius bites it back, rolls his eyes. Oh, yes, he's noticed; little Piggy's an absolute terror, and it's no wonder with parents like _that_.  
  
Harry smiles a little, tilting his head to one side. 'You must be quite a smart dog-- you really _understand_ me, don't you?' he asks, eyes too bright, too clever, too _hopeful_.  
  
_Play dumb!_ the sensible part of his mind screams, but it's only a very _small_ part and impulse control is a rather tricky matter when you're a dog. Sirius nods once.  
  
'Are you _magic_?' the boy asks in hushed tones-- any fear he felt has been thoroughly replaced with wonder.  
  
Those awful muggles very obviously haven't told him who he _is_, but Sirius has begun to suspect that most muggle kids believe in magic at least a little-- as though they can feel it instinctively, or maybe their imaginations are stronger than what their world dictates is possible. Sirius nods again, and winks for good measure.  
  
'Oh, _brilliant_,' Harry replies with a grin. 'Uncle Vernon says there's no such thing as magic, but he _also_ says animals can't talk and I _know_ some can, and then weird things just _happen_ sometimes and they always act like it's my fault but I don't know _how_ I'm supposed to have done that sort of thing unless--'  
  
Harry breaks off, suddenly stiff and unsmiling; there's a man shouting in the distance and a woman's high-pitched screams over Piggy's still-audible wails, and Sirius can pick out a few of the man's words-- including Harry's name and terms like 'blasted mutt' and 'kennels' and 'put down'.  
  
'That's Uncle Vernon,' Harry says, rather unnecessarily. 'He's really mad you bit Dudley-- you should run away; one time Number Seven's new puppy bit Dudley and Uncle Vernon said it was a Menace even though there wasn't even any blood, and Number Seven had to get rid of the puppy so Uncle Vernon wouldn't call his Solicitor. And _you're_ a Magic Dog, too, so he'll hate you worst of all.'  
  
Sirius hesitates-- he loathes the thought of just _leaving_, but Harry's clearly bright and clever, and Sirius knows he'll never be able to stick around without causing more trouble for both of them, knows he'll have to find some other way. He slowly gets up and starts back towards the hedge--  
  
Vernon shouts again (now including phrases such as 'cupboard' and 'meaning of pain' and 'regret you were ever born'). Sirius's fur bristles and he can practically _feel_ Harry flinch. He stops and looks back, thinking how the kid is so _small_ and how can he just--  
  
'W-wait,' says Harry. 'Can I... come with you?' The small round face is so full of pained longing-- it's enough that Sirius is pretty sure he'd be tearing up if he were human-shaped, and has to stifle a small distressed doggy whine. Harry scuffs the toe of his peeling trainer against the pavement. 'It's just... I'll probably get locked in my cupboard again, at least if Uncle Vernon doesn't strangle me first, and--'  
  
..._Oh, hell_. Sirius woofs softly and trots back to Harry's side, licks his cheek and tugs at the hem of his baggy and faded t-shirt before starting off again.  
  
This time, Harry falls into step beside him, small fingers twisted into the fur of his back like the kid is terrified he'll vanish. Which he probably _is_\-- terrified that he'll have to go back to that awful place he's been forced to live. What the _bloody ever-loving fuck_ were they _thinking_, leaving a child in a place like that-- leaving _James and Lily's son_\--  
  
'Sorry I got scared,' Harry says as Sirius leads him through a couple hedges and out onto a side street near a park. 'I've only really known Aunt Marge's bulldogs before, and they're mean and hate me.' He falls quiet, pensive. 'Well, she's not really _my_ aunt, but I have to call her Aunt Marge anyway or Uncle Vernon gets angry.'  
  
_Not anymore, you don't_, Sirius thinks darkly.  
  
'But I like you,' Harry adds. 'You're a Good Dog.'  
  
Something about this frank comment makes Sirius want to laugh for the first time since... he can't remember when. Laughing as a dog is always a bit strange (since dogs can't quite laugh in the way people do) but Harry seems to understand well enough what the peculiar not-quite-doglike sound is supposed to mean, and smiles in return.  
  
As they cross the park, none of the few pedestrians bat an eye at what appears to be a young boy and his pet dog going for an afternoon walk-- and why would they think otherwise? But Sirius is painfully aware that he's just more or less _kidnapped_ the Saviour of the Wizarding World (does taking your godson away from horrible abusive relatives who lock him in a cupboard still count as kidnapping? Sirius feels like it really shouldn't, but also suspects most people would disagree) and now they're both probably in quite a lot of danger... and Sirius might as well be an ordinary dog for all that he's actually equipped to protect a small child.  
  
...Or even provide the most basic level of care. He reminds himself, again, that Harry absolutely _cannot_ eat rubbish out of bins.  
  
Harry obviously isn't scared or concerned, his eyes bright with excitement-- it's all some Grand Adventure to him, a Magic Dog come to whisk him away from his life of misery and neglect, like something out of a fairy tale. But that's _not_ how the world goes, and Sirius knows it's not fair to lead him off into the unknown without at least explaining some things. Even if he's just a kid and Sirius is just barely clinging to the last vestiges of his own sanity. _Damn_.  
  
Before he can chicken out, he guides Harry into the yard of a vacant house with a for-sale sign, around the back and into a shed. It's dark once he shoulders the door closed, even to Padfoot's eyes-- good.  
  
'Do you live here?' comes a child's whisper. 'Is this a _magic_ shed?'  
  
Sirius takes a deep breath, lets it out, and changes back. 'No, Harry,' he croaks-- and winces at the sound of his voice, rusty from disuse.  
  
Harry either doesn't notice or doesn't care. 'You can _talk_,' he gasps.  
  
'Only sometimes,' says Sirius, sitting against the closed door. '...Can you keep a secret, Harry?'  
  
Harry nods, wide-eyed-- Sirius can just make it out in the dim light that creeps in through the cracks around the door. 'I'm very good at secrets.'  
  
'I'm your godfather,' Sirius says abruptly, because he has no idea where else to begin. 'Your dad was my best friend, and he-- I promised him and your mum I'd look out for you, if--' He breaks off again, takes a deep breath. 'Do you know much about your parents?'  
  
Harry shakes his head. 'Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon hate talking about them. They died in a car crash when I was just a baby.'  
  
'A _car_\--' Sirius begins, bites off the outraged comment and gets his breathing under control. This is _hard_ and he's not ready for it, but he doesn't see any other way. 'It-- it _wasn't_ a car crash, Harry. Your parents were murdered, by a very bad man. He tried to kill you too, but... couldn't.'  
  
Harry takes a moment to mull this over. 'So were my mum and dad magic, like you?'  
  
'Yes-- and so are you.'  
  
He can just make out Harry's teeth in the dark as he grins-- like the whole world just clicked into place. 'Can I turn into a dog, too, then?'  
  
Sirius is startled into laughing again, and it sounds like a dog's bark. 'No, most witches and wizards can't turn into animals-- it's my secret power, so you mustn't tell anyone about it.'  
  
'Oh, okay.' Harry fidgets. 'Am I... going to live with you now?' he asks, with that awful pained _hope_ that makes Sirius feel like he's suffocating--  
  
The smile drops off Sirius's face as swiftly as it appeared. '...That's what I need to talk to you about. I'm not really... There's bad people after me, and I don't have a home, and-- and it'll be miserable and dangerous and not fun at all, probably even worse than living with your aunt and uncle. So if you'd rather go back--'  
  
'No,' says Harry, forcefully, and Sirius can hear Lily's stubborn streak in the word, can practically see the way she'd set her jaw and lift her chin... '_Nothing's_ worse than the Dursleys,' Harry adds, quieter but with a hardness to it that leaves no doubt about the sort of people the Dursleys are (just in case Sirius wasn't already convinced).  
  
'Okay,' Sirius croaks, once again cursing himself for not taking Harry on That Night-- if he'd only given up on finding Peter, been a little more insistent with Hagrid, Harry wouldn't've had to stay with those _bloody awful_\-- but it's too late for regrets. He puts his hands on Harry's shoulders, too thin and small under his baggy shirt. 'Yes-- of course you can come. I just wanted to be sure you knew you had a choice.'  
  
'Well, they're horrible and I don't want to go back ever,' Harry states. 'Besides, you can show me magic, and tell me things about my parents, and...' He trails off, squinting at Sirius in the dark, the silence suddenly heavy-- because Sirius isn't ready to talk openly about James (not yet, not while it's still so _raw_) and it seems Harry picked up on his discomfort with the instincts of a child who's had to learn to read such things-- but Harry speaks again before Sirius can say anything. 'What's your name? You know my name but I don't know yours.'  
  
Sirius twitches, drops his hands and shakes himself out in a rather doglike manner. '...Padfoot,' he answers.  
  
Harry giggles. 'That's a funny name.'  
  
'It's my dog-name,' says Sirius. 'I've got to stay a dog most of the time so you should use that one.'  
  
'Oh, right,' Harry says, as though this makes such perfect sense that he should've thought of it himself. 'So, can you only turn into a person in the dark, then?'  
  
'...For the moment, yeah.' In a manner of speaking, anyway. He looks absolutely frightful, he knows, and doesn't want to scare the kid... and doesn't know how to explain that everyone thinks he's a mad mass-murderer, either.  
  
'That's too bad... I should've liked to see what magic dog-people look like.'  
  
'Not so different from normal people,' Sirius answers. 'You'd be disappointed-- but wait'll you see a centaur; they're like people up top but with horse bodies on the bottom half.'  
  
'Oh, _wicked_,' says Harry. 'Will we see them soon?' But Sirius falls silent and doesn't answer, and Harry squirms as though afraid he said something wrong. '...Padfoot?'  
  
Sirius puts his hands on Harry's shoulders again. 'Harry, I-- if you're going to come with me, I need to know you'll...' He takes a deep breath. 'You know how you've been in trouble before-- when your aunt or uncle or cousin tried to hurt you?'  
  
'Er-- yeah?' says Harry, as though he can't imagine why Padfoot is suddenly bringing it up.  
  
'There's going to be other people like that, who want to hurt you-- and I'll do all I can to make sure they _can't_\-- but I need you to promise that if I tell you to run away, or hide and stay quiet, you'll do that. Because there _are_ people out there much worse than your Dursleys.'  
  
Harry sits quietly for a moment. 'Like the man who killed my parents, you mean?'  
  
'Yes,' Sirius croaks. 'Like _him_.' He squeezes Harry's shoulders. 'So-- promise?'  
  
Harry seems to give this careful consideration. 'Okay,' he says finally. 'I will-- but only if _you_ promise you'll stay safe too.'  
  
This seems like a rather tall order, something Sirius really isn't sure he can guarantee, and he doesn't want to lie or make promises he can't keep. But maybe Harry's worked it out (at least on some level) that his parents once stood between him and danger and died for it, that Sirius is fully prepared to do the same-- and maybe (even at such a young age) he's already decided that he doesn't want anyone getting hurt on his behalf (Sirius thinks back to the moment, less than an hour before, when Harry stood flinching at Vernon Dursley's enraged shouting but his first impulse was to tell _Sirius_ to flee, so that seems very likely).  
  
Sirius pulls Harry into a hug. '...Yeah, I'll try my best,' he whispers, and really means it-- not because he thinks his own life is actually worth preserving, but because he can't let Harry face the aftermath alone (not _again_, not so soon) and because _he's_ never wanted anyone stepping in front of him either.  
  
And he thinks how Lily had always stood up and fought, too-- they all had, of course, but _she_ had been the first and the loudest, even when it was thankless, even though she had the most to lose. Lily had been the bravest of them all-- and when Sirius thinks that Harry's got his mother's eyes, it has nothing to do with their colour.  
  
Harry might not fully understand the dangers they're up against (Sirius wishes he'd never have to, but Sirius is not an optimist and can't imagine there's truly any chance of that) but the road ahead won't be the first time he's faced hardship, and he's got the strength to rise up and face it, and he won't have to do it alone. So that's something, at least.  
  
Still, taking Harry and running off into the unknown is probably the most foolish, reckless, _dangerous_ thing Sirius has ever done in a lifetime full of foolish and reckless and dangerous things, because this time it's not just his own skin on the line. This time it's _Harry_ (a child!) and _he's_ supposed to be the Responsible Adult (even though he feels like neither of those things) and he _knows_ just how wrong it might go (and he's fucking terrified it _will_). But he holds Harry tight against his chest and knows it's the only choice he can make.  
  
Because _Sirius_ is no stranger to neglect and abuse; he knows what it is to have the people who are supposed to look after you instead telling you that everything you believe in and everything you are is worthless, dirty, _subhuman_. Because even though he escaped them years ago, Azkaban drags all your worst memories back to the front and it feels like only yesterday he was small and friendless and unloved, his mother's shrill screams ringing in his ears and the dark closing in around him--  
  
But Harry's _here_, in a small dusty shed with the late afternoon sun just visible through the cracks, clinging to the filthy Azkaban robes like he never wants to let go-- like he doesn't care that the hug is all sharp bony angles or that Sirius is coated in years' worth of filth (and smells exactly as bad as you'd expect), like Harry's every bit as afraid as Sirius is that he'll wake up and find out this was nothing but a dream... so Sirius holds him, trying to convince the both of them that this moment isn't about to vanish into thin air.  
  
They'll need to move on soon, Sirius knows (can't afford to stay in one place, need to put more distance between themselves and Privet Drive, should really get out of Little Whinging entirely) but for the moment he doesn't let himself think, doesn't move, tells himself that no matter what comes he'll find some way to make this work.


	2. place the moon at his eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (chapter 1&2 illos are rebloggable [here](https://felix-duskglass.tumblr.com/post/612156997792661504/chase-the-stars)!)

#### { place the moon at his eyes }

In the near-total darkness of a little shed that's not far from the only home Harry has ever known (but still quite a bit farther than he's ever walked by himself before), Harry gets a hug from his secret magical godfather who was until very recently a dog. This is remarkable for several reasons, not the least of which is that Harry can't remember ever being hugged before (since Aunt Petunia only ever gives hugs to Dudley and not him, and Uncle Vernon isn't much for hugs in general). Harry guesses that Padfoot probably doesn't get many hugs either (on account of him being a dog most of the time) so Harry tries to make it count, because hugs are every bit as nice as he's always imagined they might be.  
  
But all too soon, Padfoot pulls back and says they have to keep moving and get away from Privet Drive before the Dursleys start looking for him (Harry is sure they won't try very hard, especially not while they're fussing over Dudley's arm, but he doesn't say any of this and just nods because he and Padfoot obviously can't stay in the shed forever either). So Harry listens while Padfoot tells him _always act like you know where you are even if you don't_, and _never let on that you're alone without any parents around_, and _trust your instincts and if anyone scares you run like mad_\-- and Harry promises he'll be careful.  
  
And then Padfoot pulls the door open, and he's already dog-shaped again as the afternoon sun cuts through the dusty air (and Harry tries not to feel too disappointed by this, even though he's still very curious about what Padfoot looks like when person-shaped).  
  
They slip across town by back alleys and narrow side-streets, cutting through the gaps in hedges and fences. Sometimes, Padfoot stops to sniff the air, his ears pricked up, and then he'll lead Harry off in a different direction-- away from human voices, and smells too subtle for Harry to pick up, carefully avoiding other people.  
  
It's all great fun, at first-- but they keep walking as afternoon wears on towards evening, and Harry's feet get tired and sore, and he starts to get hungry, which is rather less fun. Harry has been hungry and sore before, though, and he's not in the habit of complaining about things like that (as the Dursleys would lock him in his cupboard without supper if he did)... and now he's got Padfoot at his side, watching over him with eyes too intelligent to be a regular dog's and staying close enough that he's always within arm's reach, and Padfoot's company is enough to make up for everything else.  
  
Harry has never had anyone he might consider a _friend_ before, after all-- never had anyone he could confide in or share secrets with, or who was just nice to be around. Harry has only known Padfoot for a few hours, but seeing as Harry's entire prior acquaintance has consisted of the Dursleys and people who like the Dursleys, it's no surprise that Harry already likes Padfoot more than anyone else he's ever met.  
  
They keep moving until after dark, and Harry figures they must be very far away from Privet Drive by now-- Padfoot leads Harry around the back of a house with no lights on inside and no car in the drive, and finds a padlocked cellar door, and Harry can just barely make him out as he turns person-shaped in the deep shadow of a hedge, slender and long-haired. Padfoot bends over the lock, and fiddles with it for a minute, and then it pops open-- Harry wonders if this is more magic, as Padfoot pulls the door back and whispers for Harry to follow him inside.  
  
'We can talk here, a bit,' says Padfoot, his voice still very quiet and raspy. 'But don't turn on any lights, or one of the neighbours might see.'  
  
Harry nods, and then remembers it's very dark and Padfoot probably can't see that, so he whispers _okay_ and follows Padfoot through the cellar. He doesn't ask if this is Padfoot's house (because Padfoot already said he doesn't have one back in the shed) but it clearly belongs to _someone_\-- there's a lot of boxes of things in the cellar, and coats and hats hanging by the front door when they reach the top of the stairs. 'Is it really alright for us to come in here?' asks Harry.  
  
'Erm,' says Padfoot, opening what turns out to be a closet and then closing it again. 'Well, no one's here now, and we're not staying long...' He opens another door. 'Right, there's the toilet.'  
  
He steps back from the open door, clearly inviting Harry to use it, and Harry says, 'I don't have to go yet.'  
  
'Best try anyway, unless you fancy going under hedges-- don't know how soon we'll find another one.'  
  
Harry wrinkles his nose. 'No thanks-- I'm sure that's fine if you're a dog, though.'  
  
Padfoot gives a short laugh and says he supposes so, and assures Harry that he'll be in the kitchen just down the hall-- unless, he adds with a sudden flash of uncertainty, Harry doesn't know how to use a toilet yet? But Harry rolls his eyes at this and says of course he does because he's _almost five_ and even _Dudley_ knows how to use the toilet by now, to which Padfoot just shrugs and says he's known people who don't have toilets at all so he wanted to be sure. Harry wonders if that's common for Magic Dog People, not having toilets, but doesn't ask because he thinks Padfoot seems a bit nervous like he's eager to finish up and get back outside, which makes Harry even more sure that they're really not supposed to be here after all, so he figures it's best to try and be as quick as possible.  
  
Harry is very careful to leave everything in the washroom exactly as he found it (a habit he'd picked up while living with the Dursleys) and once he's finished he feels his way around a corner and into the dark kitchen. Padfoot has filled up a plastic shopping bag with food from the cupboards, and he passes Harry a tin of preserved peaches with the lid already popped open. Harry still has a lot of questions for Padfoot (most of them more pressing than the one about toilets-- things he would like to know about his parents, and what sorts of magic Padfoot can do besides turning into a dog and opening locks, and if there are any tricks he can teach Harry since he _did_ say that Harry is magic too) but for now Harry's too hungry to do anything other than devour his peaches, and Padfoot slips back along the hall for a moment (he walks very quietly even when person-shaped, which Harry thinks is very fitting for someone called _Padfoot_, and he wonders if there's some interesting story behind the name).  
  
Padfoot returns just as Harry sips the last of the juice from the tin, with a light jacket and a knit hat-- the jacket is a bit too large, but Harry's used to that since all of his clothes previously belonged to Dudley, and he's glad for it since the night's already becoming a bit chilly to be out in only his threadbare t-shirt. He's a lot less fond of the hat, which is itchy against the scar on his forehead, but he agrees to wear it anyway after Padfoot explains that people might see his scar and recognise him and try to send him back to the Dursleys. Padfoot seems very sure that people _will_ recognise him if they're not very careful, and Harry remembers all the times when strangers in weird clothes have waved to him in the streets or shook his hand in the supermarket before Aunt Petunia could hurry him away, and he tugs at the hat to make sure it's covering his forehead properly. He really doesn't want to go back to the Dursleys.  
  
There's no time for more questions before they leave the way they came in, back through the cellar door, and then Padfoot turns into a dog again and they keep walking-- until Harry feels like he's about to fall asleep standing up (it's very late at night now, definitely past the time when Aunt Petunia would have tucked Dudley into bed and sent Harry to his cupboard) and then Padfoot carries him on his back for a while and Harry half dozes off, drifting in and out of dreams-- _clinging to Padfoot's back as they race through the night under a bright full moon with wolves howling in the distance, and human-Padfoot lifting him up in stick-thin arms, and the wind in his hair as the flying motorbike soars up into the star-filled sky with city lights spread out like a second set of constellations far below, and lying curled up in a dark corner as a loud rattling and clacking noise shakes the floor beneath him and the sound of a train's whistle echoes across the night_...

* * * 

Sirius finds that it's a bit easier to stay focused now that he's got someone else's immediate needs to think of, easier to take things one step at a time-- they keep moving all through the first night, pushing on until Sirius finds another train and they hitch a ride back into the outskirts of London. Harry dozes through most of this, but Sirius doesn't dare close his eyes, can't sleep even after they're off the train and safely out of sight, curled up in a corner to rest-- he has no idea how long they've got before someone realises Harry is missing (how frequently does the magical world check in on The Boy Who Lived to make sure he is still in fact alive? and how long before the Dursleys have finished fretting over little Piggy's arm and start trying to locate the second child in their care?) so Sirius stays awake and keeps watch. He can sleep later, once they've found someplace safe enough to lie low for more than an hour or two... he just has to hold on a little longer.  
  
Once dawn has come and Harry's properly awake again, they make their way through increasingly busy neighbourhoods, now nothing at all like the small town where Harry has lived his whole life, and the unfamiliarity seems to make him a bit nervous-- and Sirius can hardly blame him. The sheer quantity of people and vehicles definitely has Sirius on edge as well (and that's saying nothing of the city's _smell_, which only strengthens as the population density rises) but he knows it's their best chance of blending in until he can come up with a proper plan-- the sudden appearance of a lone child would stand out far too much in a smaller town, but here they're hardly worth a second glance among the throngs of people rushing about. Still, Sirius keeps them to side streets and away from wide open spaces whenever possible, and does his best to avoid any situations which might result in direct encounters. They can't afford to draw attention to themselves, or do anything that might be remembered...  
  
Harry seems to understand this well enough, luckily, and hardly says anything all day-- apart from the need to keep a low profile, Harry seems determined to never complain (enough that he could probably use a reminder that it's fine to speak up when he does need something) but it's certainly not the first time Sirius has looked after someone with an aversion to asking for help, and as messed up as those years in Azkaban have undoubtedly left him, he still remembers how to tell when help is needed even if it's not asked for. And Harry has little trouble working out what Sirius is trying to communicate even while he's a dog, easily following his nonverbal cues, so in the end they manage well enough.  
  
It's not until after night falls again that Sirius finds a residential street and leads Harry around the back of another temporarily-vacant house (he'd learnt to identify them during the war, when quickly finding a place to hide had been a valuable survival skill) and he takes extra care to make sure no one else is around and that they're both well hidden in the shadows before he shifts human again, and picks the lock on the back door to let them in.  
  
'Is that magic?' says Harry, as Sirius closes the door behind them. 'How you open the locks.'  
  
'Er-- not really,' says Sirius. 'I... can't actually do much magic right now.'  
  
'Oh.' Harry sounds a bit disappointed to hear that. 'Why not?'  
  
'Haven't got a wand-- sometimes you can do magic without one if you're really angry or in a lot of trouble, but it's very difficult to do that sort of thing on purpose.' He used to be decently skilled at wandless casting, but he doesn't bother mentioning that now-- deliberate wandless magic requires a degree of power and control he no longer possesses; he doesn't think he could manage so much as a basic _lumos_ at this point.  
  
Harry maintains a thoughtful silence while Sirius locates the pantry, and after a moment he asks how magic people get wands in the first place, and Sirius says there's shops that sell them but not to small children or to dogs, and Harry is too fascinated by the prospect of _whole magic shops_ to continue being disappointed that Padfoot can't show him a lot of magic right away.  
  
Sirius digs out some food for both of them, and they sit in the dark and eat, and Sirius considers the wand problem-- he can't buy one, for the obvious reasons, so his only chance is to find a witch or wizard, catch them by surprise and steal theirs... but that's easier said than done. He can't take any risks that might put Harry in danger, can't let himself be seen... and he finds that he's curiously opposed to doing something so blatantly _criminal_ in front of Harry. Bad enough that he's been stealing food from vacant houses, and bit Cousin Piggy-- but at least the break-ins aren't hurting anyone, and he only went after Dudley because he was hitting Harry. Attacking an innocent person going about their daily business, though...  
  
The sound of a car door slamming down the street makes him jump, and he hears voices outside one of the neighbouring houses, lurches back to his feet-- not safe to stay here; time to move on.  
  
He thinks about finding a wizarding house, as they walk through the night-- sneaking in while the residents are asleep, taking a wand off a bedside table, or perhaps an old spare from a junk drawer-- maybe that would be better. Assuming he can find a house that's not warded against intruders, assuming he can grab the wand and get out again without waking anyone, without being seen... maybe it's a stupid idea after all. He's not sure he can tell anymore.  
  
And then morning comes again, far too soon, so he's forced to give it up anyway.  
  
Sirius can feel the exhaustion eating at his mind by now-- knows it's been far too long since he last slept, knows he can't go on like this indefinitely-- so they crawl into the dingy basement of a long-abandoned building, and curl around each other in the dark. Harry promptly falls asleep, but Sirius can barely close his eyes before the nightmares crawling along the edges of his consciousness jolt him awake again. It doesn't seem to matter that he's on the verge of blacking out, that he's so sluggish he feels like he's been drugged...  
  
He keeps thinking he hears small skittering feet, scurrying rodent footsteps weaving in and out of fitful dreams-- a small body thumps against his side, and he shoots upright, snarling, catches the small squeaking thing in his jaws--  
  
Too small; just a mouse. Not a rat, not _the Rat_.  
  
...But he's woken Harry again, with his thrashing about-- he can feel small careful hands on his back, fingers buried in his fur, and a child's voice asks if everything's alright. He whines, pushes his face against the boy's chest, and Harry hugs him close-- it's not supposed to be like this; he's not supposed to be so bloody _useless_, like nothing's changed at all... They stay like that a while, unmoving, and then Sirius gets up and tugs at Harry's jacket and leads him out of the basement again.  
  
He's not sure the nap didn't leave him even worse off than he was before-- he twitches at every little noise, and tries desperately not to think about Rats.

* * * 

Remus Lupin isn't doing well, even by his usual standards-- there's little point trying to pretend otherwise, much as he hates to admit it.  
  
People don't trust werewolves, as a general rule, don't want him around-- there's nothing to stop the entire wizarding world from collectively refusing him employment once they find out what he is (which is inevitable; it's right there on his record for any employer who cares to run a background check, after all, and they always _do_ because no one can look at his scars without wondering what sort of life he's led to get them) so he's left to search for work among the muggles instead, which goes only slightly better (because the scars are still rather off-putting, and even those who are willing to look past them can only put up with a mysteriously and frequently ill employee for so long). And no work means no money, so he's barely able to make rent, not eating enough, can't afford the higher-quality pain-potions that might actually help-- all of which lead to more Bad Days and more lost income, locking him into a vicious downward spiral that he can't see any end to.  
  
Some days, he's not sure why he bothers. He's alone and friendless and miserable, and has no hope of any of those things changing... but he can't bring himself to give up either. It feels too much like admitting the world was right all along, like saying the handful of people who _did_ give him a chance were wasting their efforts. So he endures, moon after moon, and tries to convince himself there's some point to it all, the endless struggle to survive and the bone-deep weariness he can never shake off, the incurable agony from which he has no release...  
  
It's always been the case that some full moons are worse than others, and over the past few years there have been considerably more _bad_ ones than there used to be. He tries to tell himself it's because he's 'getting older' (as if twenty-five counts as _old_) and he just can't bounce back like he used to-- but he knows that's a lie. The last three Hogwarts years were the easiest, running wild with the Marauders, but the first few years beyond that weren't too bad either, because there was always someone _there_ the morning after the full moon, always someone to make sure he made it into bed, got down a pain-potion and something to eat, put some salve and bandages on any fresh bites and scratches...  
  
...Always _someone_, he thinks, but James had Lily and baby Harry to keep him busy, and Peter was always a bit squeamish and nervous and never had much bedside manner. He can try to frame it as a vague sort of _someone_ all he wants, but Remus knows it was always one _particular_ man who showed up every single month without fail-- even when he was exhausted from Order work, even when he tumbled in all bruised and battered, smelling of strong dangerous spells and windswept from a rushed flight back on that oversized motorbike of his-- _he_ always managed to be there, a warm comforting weight at the end of Remus's bed and a bright tired smile and some clumsy attempt at breakfast and his stupid godawful sense of humour. It was always _him_.  
  
Remus desperately wishes he could forget, but he _can't_. He's got every bloody lunar cycle to remind him in the worst possible way, on top of all the physical torment of the transformation-- he feels the _absence_ keenly, the missing warmth and the gentle elegant hands and the barklike laughter that always eased his pain far better than any potion-- and he _hates_ it, as much as Remus Lupin is capable of hate. He's not a hateful person, was never one to hold a grudge, but he can't stop _hurting_ and sometimes (more often than not, these days) he wishes they'd never met. Maybe it would hurt less if he'd never had that taste of happiness, if he'd never thought that maybe there could be a place for him, someone who really cared enough to always come back.  
  
But of course it was all too good to be true. Werewolves are not _supposed_ to have... whatever it was they'd had between them (whatever it might've become, if not for the war, if _he_ hadn't thrown it all away like that, if Remus had been bold enough and selfish enough to reach for it).  
  
He can't forget, can't get it out of his head-- sometimes, Remus can even swear he _smells_ the man. And this month (the first full moon after the escape from Azkaban hit the news, with _his_ face plastered all over the place even in muggle areas) it's even _worse_, so close he can almost taste it... because he misses James and Lily and Peter, but it's the _betrayal_ that cuts deeper than everything else. It's alien to him, and he can't understand how he was once so sure he _knew_ the man, how they could all have missed the signs and never seen just how horribly _wrong_ they all were.  
  
He curses and bites back furious tears (because the moon always makes him overemotional) and he lets that old wild magic take him-- and he's almost _glad_ for it, for once, because at least while he's a wolf he doesn't have to think, doesn't have to _be_.

* * * 

Sirius knew from the start that constantly staying on the move wouldn't be sustainable in the long term-- and it's only become more obvious as day faded to night once more, with the fatigue sinking into his bones, like he's dragging himself through deep rushing water against a powerful current, like he's swimming across an icy sea with no idea how far off the shore might be... it's constantly trying to trip him up and drag him under, and he knows that a single misstep is all it'll take for him to fall, and he's not sure he has the strength to pick himself up again...  
  
But he _can't_ let that happen, not _now_\-- can't falter, can't stop. He made it across the sea before, after all, made it this far, so there has to be _something_ he can do... something, anything.  
  
The full moon hangs in the sky like a beacon, and Sirius lifts his head, feels as though its pale light has pierced the haze of exhaustion-- it's little more than instinct that leads him on now, and the barest hint of a deeply familiar scent weaving in and out of other smells, nearly consumed by the sharp stink of rubbish and piss. But it's just enough to trace, and he follows it through some dilapidated and grimy neighbourhood full of desperate downcast people who lurk in darkened doorways and narrow alleys, watching them pass with suspicious and sometimes leering stares-- all too interested in a small child alone at night, like they're marking an easy target-- but Sirius growls low in his throat and bares his teeth, and in the end none of them dare to come closer. Even in his current half-starved state, his dog form is large and threatening enough to make even the toughest thugs think twice about crossing him.  
  
It's well after midnight by the time they reach a peeling door at the bottom of a narrow dingy stairwell-- a door which would have been utterly unremarkable, except the basement beyond is so heavily caked in silencing spells it makes Sirius sneeze, and there's a mild muggle-repelling charm hanging around the frame. And underneath all the magic, the _scent_ is unmistakable now, powerful and close. Sirius curls up at the bottom of the little stair with Harry at his side, and once again he waits, ears straining for what he can't hear beyond the tangle of spellwork as he watches the moon's shadows gradually inch their way across the ground and up the walls of the building opposite.  
  
In the chilly grey light that precedes the dawn, Sirius slowly shifts himself from under Harry (careful not to wake him) and shakes the stiffness out of his limbs as he rises to a crouch in front of the door, sliding back into human shape and tugging the little bit of metal from where he stashed it in the mess of his hair.  
  
It takes him a little longer to pick the lock this time (his fingers are cold and cramped and don't want to cooperate) but soon enough he gets the door open. Even in human form, the smells that roll over him are nearly overwhelming-- but he shakes it all off, gathers Harry up in his arms and slinks inside, and when the door swings closed behind him it's as though they were never there.

* * * 

When Harry wakes up, he's lying in a cocoon of patchy blankets on the most battered couch he's ever seen-- it's scratched up even worse than Mrs Figg's were, on account of all her cats. He's glad that this place, whatever it is, doesn't smell anything like Mrs Figg's house (which always smelled strongly of overcooked cabbage, and just a bit like used cat litter). Instead, it reminds him of old books, and something odd and musky and strangely familiar (though he can't quite place it, as it's nothing like the dusty smell of his cupboard or the harsh cleaners Aunt Petunia uses back at the house on Privet Drive, or any other place he can remember being).  
  
Harry sits up and looks around. He guesses he's in a basement, from the way the windows are all tiny and crowded up against the ceiling-- they let a bit of daylight in, though the space is still rather dim with no lights on-- and once again he gets the distinct feeling that they've come into someone else's home. Faded and threadbare throw-rugs cover the concrete floor, and there's packed bookshelves all along the wall next to the couch, and a small stove and a sink set against the far wall beyond a battered kitchen table.  
  
Padfoot emerges from the dark narrow hall next to one of the bookshelves, a patch of deeper darkness peeling away from the murky shadows, claws clicking faintly on the concrete. Harry starts to call out to him-- but Padfoot bounds towards him and lands on the couch with a clammy hand over Harry's mouth, suddenly a wild-looking man instead of a dog. The man holds one bony finger up against his own lips, in the familiar gesture for _be quiet_.  
  
Harry nods his understanding, and the man just as quickly backs off-- Harry reaches out, fingers brushing a filthy ragged sleeve as Padfoot drops back to the floor with a soft thump-- and suddenly he's a dog again, chin resting on his forepaws as he looks up at Harry with large pale eyes, the same sad and remorseful look he gave Harry after he bit Dudley.  
  
Very quietly, Harry disentangles himself from the blankets and slides down to the floor, patting Padfoot on the head-- Harry's still not sure whether that's entirely _right_, since Padfoot _is_ a person as well as a dog and patting a person on the head seems a bit of a strange and not-quite-polite thing to do, but Padfoot doesn't seem to mind at all. Tentatively, Harry scritches him behind the ear, and he closes his eyes and rests his head on Harry's shoulder.  
  
'It's okay,' says Harry, in the quietest whisper he can muster, moving his arms to hug Padfoot against him. 'I'm not scared. Can you be person-shaped right now?'  
  
Padfoot's fur goes staticky under his arms, muscles and bones shifting and rearranging, and then a hand brushes over the top of Harry's head, ruffling his hair, and there's a faint sniffing sound from next to Harry's ear. 'Sorry,' Padfoot-the-man whispers hoarsely, and pulls back.  
  
He stays person-shaped this time, looking up at Harry through a tangle of black hair that hangs well past his shoulders. His face is thin and sharp, his eyes ringed in dark shadows, and the dramatic angles of his eyebrows remind Harry of the way his fur frames his eyes as a dog-- his human eyes are pale grey just like his dog ones, and the look in them is the same, clever and alert, full of deep sorrow and compassion.  
  
...And Harry realises he's seen Padfoot's human face before, though he didn't notice the eyes then, or give it more than a cursory glance. 'You were on the telly,' says Harry, still carefully quiet. 'And in the newspaper.'  
  
'Oh.' Padfoot fidgets awkwardly. 'Yeah, about that...' He slouches, seems to draw in on himself. 'D'you know why?'  
  
Harry shrugs-- if the reporter lady had said anything about it, he wasn't paying enough attention to remember. 'Uncle Vernon saw your picture and said your hair was horrible and filthy,' he says instead. 'But Uncle Vernon hates my hair too, so that's all right.'  
  
Padfoot snorts and gives a weak sort of smile, and chews at his lip thoughtfully, and then says, 'There's a lot of people who think I did some very bad things, so they're trying to find me and-- well, that's why they put my picture in the paper.' He watches Harry intently, and adds, 'But I _didn't_ do any of the things they say I did.'  
  
Harry looks at him, and thinks about how Padfoot goes into houses that aren't his and takes their food-- but he's never tried to make excuses, and _does_ seem to know it's not allowed, and in any case Harry thinks he must be talking about something far worse than taking a bit of food he's not supposed to have (as Harry has snuck food from the Dursleys plenty of times himself, and he can't imagine they'd put your picture on the telly for something like _that_). 'What sorts of things?' he asks, curious rather than concerned.  
  
Padfoot fidgets and looks down at his hands. '...Killed people,' he croaks. 'And...' He rubs a hand over his face, takes a deep breath. 'Remember what I told you, about how your parents died? People think I was on _his_ side-- the man who killed them. I've... messed up a lot of things, but I'd _never_ hurt them, or you, not on purpose...'  
  
Harry can see the hurt all over Padfoot's face, how his features twist with deep disgust and loathing he feels towards the Bad Man-- 'I know,' says Harry quietly, and he scoots closer and gives Padfoot a hug, because Padfoot looks like he could really use one right about now. 'Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia always blame me for stuff I didn't do, too,' Harry adds after a moment. '...Though nothing _that_ bad.'  
  
Padfoot holds him tightly, and sniffs loudly, and then puts one hand on top of Harry's head and asks, 'Are you hungry?'  
  
'A bit,' Harry answers with a shrug, even though he really is quite hungry-- and it occurs to him that Padfoot isn't at all likely to use it against him the way the Dursleys might've done if he'd answered honestly, but it's a hard habit to break right away.  
  
Padfoot seems to understand well enough, though-- he picks Harry up and goes to the other end of the room by the sink and the stove, and sets Harry down on the kitchen table. There's a squat cylindrical appliance on the countertop with a garish pink-and-orange floral print on the sides-- Padfoot lifts the lid and very quietly scoops some steaming rice into a bowl.  
  
'Sorry-- it's not much,' Padfoot whispers, as he carefully sets the lid back into place and passes the bowl over to Harry.  
  
But Harry's mouth is already watering and he doesn't bother asking for a spoon before shoving some of the rice into his mouth with his fingers (and, after all, he's not sure if Magic Dog-People use spoons and doesn't want to make Padfoot feel embarassed). It's very plain, just the rice with a little bit of shredded chicken mixed in, but it's better than what the Dursleys typically give him (and he's hungry enough that he's pretty sure anything would taste good).  
  
'It's _perfect_,' he mumbles through another mouthful, still carefully quiet. Padfoot smiles, and it makes his gaunt face light up, which in turn makes the whole dim basement feel cosier. 'You should have some too,' Harry adds, a minute later, giving Padfoot a critical look-- he's really _very_ thin.  
  
Padfoot snorts as though Harry said something funny, then fills up a second bowl and sits on the floor and digs into it as though he's at least as hungry as Harry, also using his fingers. Harry thinks of how horrified Aunt Petunia would be to see them, sitting on floors and tables and eating with their _hands_, not to mention the way Padfoot's long messy hair keeps almost falling in his food-- and Harry can't help but grin, because he's very glad to be away from Aunt Petunia and all her rules.  
  
Harry finishes his rice and sets the bowl carefully on the table before sliding down to the floor. Padfoot keeps eating, though his eyes follow Harry over the rim of his bowl. Harry crouches down next to him, studying his bony face and his knobbly hands and his odd ragged grey clothes, and takes a moment to sort through all the questions he's been saving.  
  
He decides to start off with: 'Are you a dog that turns into a person, or a person that turns into a dog?'  
  
Padfoot blinks at him, and swallows. 'Second one.'  
  
'What's it like, being a dog?'  
  
Another pause, in which Padfoot looks thoughtful. 'Things smell a lot stronger,' he mumbles softly. 'But I can't see colours as well. I run faster and... think quieter.'  
  
'..._Think_ quieter?' Harry frowns. 'What's that mean?'  
  
Padfoot lifts one shoulder and shoves more rice at his face. Harry figures Padfoot must be too hungry to talk and eat at the same time, and tries to be patient until he's finished.  
  
Finally, Padfoot sets his bowl aside, and reaches up to pick a few stray grains of rice out of his hair. 'This place-- old friend of your dad's lives here.' Padfoot licks the rice grains off his fingers. 'He's... unwell. Sleeping, in the other room.'  
  
'That's why we've got to be quiet,' Harry whispers.  
  
Padfoot nods, and grimaces. 'He... won't be happy I'm here.'  
  
'Oh...' Harry glances down the hall leading to the other room, suddenly rather nervous--  
  
'But you needn't bother with all that,' Padfoot adds quickly. 'He'll be glad to see _you_.'  
  
This isn't as reassuring as Padfoot probably meant it to be. 'Does he think you did all those bad things too?' asks Harry. 'Can't we just tell him you didn't?'  
  
Padfoot sighs. 'I don't... it's not that simple.' He pats Harry on the shoulder. 'I just wanted to be sure you understand, in case things get a bit... well, whatever else happens, you're safe here.' Padfoot picks up his bowl again, and rolls back to his feet to grab Harry's as well.  
  
Harry hugs his knees to his chest. 'Are you... going to leave?'  
  
Padfoot freezes, sets the bowls on the table and drops back to his knees. 'I-- _no_, of course not.' He starts to reach out, stops. 'Unless you-- do you want me to go?'  
  
Harry rolls his eyes. 'Don't be daft; why would I want that?' But Padfoot still looks sad and uncertain, so Harry adds, 'We'll just tell him you're _not_ bad, and if he doesn't listen we can leave and go somewhere else.'  
  
Padfoot gives him a funny look, like he's not sure whether he wants to laugh or cry-- and then he flops down on the floor as a dog. Harry pats him and scritches his ears, and wishes he was paying more attention just in case he might've seen the trick of it (whatever it is that Padfoot does to change shapes, it happens very fast and without any apparent effort on his part-- Harry thinks that he would have expected a magical transformation to be a lot flashier and more exciting to watch, and wonders if all magic is so quiet and easy to miss and if that's why people like the Dursleys are so sure magic isn't real, and he resolves to ask Padfoot later when he's person-shaped again).  
  
After a moment, Padfoot-the-dog gets up and leads Harry back towards the couch and bookshelves, where a massive book was left open on the rug-- Padfoot stops and taps the page with his paw, then sits as Harry bends forward to look.  
  
The book is full of big words Harry can't read yet, but there's a large illustration-- the upper half of a bare-chested man with curly hair, merging seamlessly into the body of a horse. Harry smiles. 'Oh-- that's what you told me about!' he whispers. 'The... the horse-man.' Harry sits in front of the book. 'Are there more pictures? Can I look?'  
  
Padfoot nods and lies down next to him, resting his head on his paws while Harry looks through the book of magical creatures, and thinks about how Padfoot said they're all actually _real_\-- and after a while, Harry says that he hopes he can see them with Padfoot someday, and even though Padfoot stays dog-shaped and doesn't answer Harry is quite sure he'd like that too.

* * * 

When Remus wakes up, he briefly wonders if the last few years have all been a horrible nightmare-- he aches like he always does after the full moon but he's warm in bed and he smells _food_\-- but then he opens his eyes and looks up at the ceiling of the little basement flat he only moved into a couple months back, and reality smacks him in the face like a fistfull of gillyweed. He squeezes his eyes closed and turns over, not wanting to even _think_ about getting up.  
  
...But the food smell _doesn't_ fade away like a dream, and when Remus opens his eyes again he can see that someone bandaged the fresh gashes on his arms and left a glass of water and vial of pain-potion on the side table. Someone was _here_, broke into his flat and--  
  
Broke in and _took care of him_, apparently. Broke in and did what his _friends_ used to do (what _he_ always used to do) except Remus doesn't _have_ friends anymore, not since...  
  
Not since they were all murdered, and _he_ got locked away. And now he's _out_, but Remus can't imagine why he would-- why he'd _still_\--  
  
But there's no one else it could be.  
  
Remus grabs up his wand (there's something _wrong_ with that but he's not yet awake enough to pinpoint why) and staggers upright (his whole body feels like it's protesting the sudden movement but he forces himself to keep going anyway) and he stumbles out into the main room, where he finds--  
  
A _child_. There's a little boy of about four, sitting on the rug with one of Remus's magical creature books, looking at the illustrations, and he glances up at the sound of Remus's footsteps-- startlingly green eyes just like Lily's and unruly jet-black hair that sticks up in all the same places as James's always did. '..._Harry_?' says Remus in utter disbelief, though he already knows it can't be anyone else.  
  
Harry nods and sits up straight. 'Are you feeling any better?' he asks politely. 'Padfoot said you--'  
  
'_Pad_\--' Remus's fingers tighten around his wand as the massive black dog at Harry's back sits up (because _of course_ it's him, just like Remus knew it had to be). 'Harry, get _away_ from him!' he calls, whipping his wand up to point straight at the animal's heart.  
  
Harry's eyes go wide at the sight of the wand-- _a real magic wand!_\-- but then he throws his arms around the dog. 'Don't hurt him! He's my--'  
  
'It's all right, Harry,' Sirius Black croaks, gently pushing the boy's arms off him-- he lifts empty hands and looks Remus dead in the eyes, with a deep breath like that simple act is the hardest thing he's ever done. 'Moony... _please_.'  
  
The wood burns under his fingers, humming with raw power, and he tells himself he _can_ do it, that he _should_, that this man deserves the worst sort of punishment after what he _did_\--  
  
No one moves. You could have heard a quill hit the floor.  
  
His eyes are too sharp, too _intense_, the only part of him that looks remotely alive-- Remus forgot how powerful those eyes could be, thinks it was a mistake to look at all. His skeletal fingers look as brittle as dry twigs in winter, his hands empty-- there's the bit that was troubling Remus. He was right _there_, had Remus at his mercy, could have taken the wand and hexed or imperiused him, and yet--  
  
..._A trick. It has to be a trick, right_...?  
  
There's about a hundred different things Remus wants to say-- most of which really _shouldn't_ be said in front of a four-year-old. He settles on 'Why is Harry _here_,' delivered as though he really means to ask why _Black_ is here, something along the lines of _What The Bloody Hell Have You Done_.  
  
'I... I didn't know where else to go,' Black begins hoarsely. 'He needed _help_\-- those muggles were--'  
  
'Harry doesn't need _anything_ from _you_,' Remus cuts in waspishly (knows the headache and the lingering moon-madness are making him snappish, but for once doesn't bother trying to tone it down). 'After what you--'  
  
'I _didn't_,' says Black, his eyes flashing with anger. 'Oh, it's my bloody _fault_\-- but I _never_ betrayed them, not--' He chokes on the words, tears tracking down his filthy cheeks. 'You think I don't _know_\-- my best friend's _dead_ because I thought I was _so fucking clever_\-- thought we could outsmart _Voldemort_, of all fucking people, but _we_ were the ones who--'  
  
Harry gives a frightened little sob, and Black breaks off-- he sinks back to the ground, eyes wide with horror-- but before he can say anything, Harry turns and presses his face into the filthy Azkaban robes. They stay like that for a long moment, holding each other, and Remus isn't sure which of them is shaking worse.  
  
Sirius takes a deep shuddering breath and looks up again, across the tiny room, his eyes puffy and bloodshot. 'Moony,' he croaks, and it sounds like a warning, like he means to say _Fuck's sake you can hate me all you want but not here not now don't do this in front of him_...  
  
Remus presses his free hand over his face. 'Sorry, I...' And he lets his wand-arm drop, eyes wide, as everything slides into place. '...Oh, _hell_, Pads-- you _switched_,' he whispers (because it's the only way to make _sense_ of it all, why they're both here and why Sirius is looking at him like _that_) and he feels like he's been doused in ice water, like the floor just tilted away beneath his feet. 'You... _didn't_ do it.'  
  
'Full marks and ten points to Gryffindor,' Sirius bites out-- his voice cracks and his whole face is a mess, but apparently he can still manage sarcasm well enough.  
  
Remus knows, logically, that he shouldn't simply take Sirius at his word without any proof, not after everything that happened... but with the man kneeling before him, he can't imagine that Sirius is lying. He's clearly had more than enough chances to hurt Harry if that had been his plan, could easily have stolen Remus's wand while he slept... and Remus thinks (with a sudden and overwhelming burst of shame) that he never questioned the guilty verdict in the first place-- allowed himself to immediately think the worst of one of his closest friends, never looked for any alternative, even one so simple and straightforward as this--  
  
'Why didn't you _tell_ me,' says Remus quietly. Sirius doesn't answer, suddenly keen on looking anywhere but at him, and... Remus understands. '...Unless you thought it was me?'  
  
'M'sorry,' Sirius mumbles, voice cracking again. 'We didn't-- just didn't _know_, and it was at the very last minute that we decided-- we didn't tell _anyone_, not even--' He takes a shuddering breath, eyes spilling over with guilt and pain and regret. 'Moony, I-- I'm a _bloody idiot_, and--' He chokes off again, tries to dry his face on his sleeve but only succeeds in smearing the filth around.  
  
'Glad you've finally noticed,' Remus says-- there's no bitterness to it, just a rather feeble attempt at a joke, a little bit of _haven't I been telling you that for years_. He crosses the room and kneels next to Sirius and puts an arm around him (and has to bite back a comment at how horrifically _thin_ he is, like a skeleton draped in rags) and Sirius leans into Remus's shoulder and gives a dry sob. After a moment, Remus puts a hand on top of Harry's head. 'Sorry about all that, Harry-- it's very nice to see you again.'  
  
'You're not angry at Padfoot anymore?' says Harry cautiously, wiping his nose on his sleeve. 'He's _not_ bad, _really_, even though they said all sorts of awful things on the telly and in the newspaper.'  
  
'No, I'm not angry-- it seems there was a dreadful misunderstanding, and I'm very sorry about that.' Remus gives Harry a tired smile. 'And I'm sorry if I frightened you.'  
  
Harry sits up indignantly at that. 'I _wasn't_ frightened!'  
  
'Course you weren't,' says Sirius, his head still resting against Remus's shoulder. 'Moony's about as frightening as a kitten-- he just gets a bit tetchy when he's just got up and hasn't had anything to eat yet.'  
  
'Oh, _honestly_,' Remus sighs, rolling his eyes (but he can't deny it either; the moons take a lot out of him and food _does_ help).  
  
'Padfoot made rice!' says Harry. 'You should have some, it's very good.'  
  
Remus peers at Sirius as though to say _rice for breakfast, really?_ and Sirius just lifts a shoulder and gives him a pointed look to remind him that it's not as though he's got much _else_ in his cupboards-- which, fair point. Remus sits back, looking them over. 'I will, but first-- you're both in need of baths,' he says, because Sirius in particular smells like he hasn't had one in years.  
  
'Harry first,' Sirius says at once, his eyes fixed on Remus.  
  
It's perhaps a little too hasty, because Harry gives him a disapproving look in response. 'I know dogs hate baths, and I don't _mean_ to be rude, but you really _do_ smell a bit and you've got bogies all over your face.'  
  
Sirius throws his head back and laughs, and it takes years off him. Remus watches him (lingering a bit too long on his face in spite of how filthy it is) until Sirius looks up and their eyes meet for a split second--  
  
And Remus tears his gaze away (pretends he wasn't staring _like that_, like a man stranded in the desert might stare at an oasis) and pushes himself back to his feet with a poorly concealed wince, and takes Harry's hand. 'He'll have his bath after you, Harry-- I do think you'd better go first, before he dirties it up.'  
  
Harry considers this, then nods, and lets Remus lead him off to the washroom (asking is he _really_ called Moony, and do _all_ magical people have such strange names, and will he have to change his since he's magic now-- to which Remus answers he's actually called Remus Lupin, and no some witches and wizards have quite ordinary names, and Harry is a perfectly fine name for a young wizard and the one his parents gave him and there's no reason he should change it unless he wants to-- and Harry replies that _Remus Lupin_ is still rather funny-sounding, which earns another bark-laugh from Sirius, who's still sprawled across the rugs with his back up against the couch).  
  
Remus sets the bath to fill up, and does a quick laundry charm on Harry's clothes when Harry explains that he only has the one set-- Harry watches with wide-eyed fascination, and excitedly asks what other magic Mr Moony can do, so Remus charms some soap into colourful bubbles for the bath, and watches the pure childish delight with a sad sort of regret, as he can't remember the last time magic brought _him_ such uncomplicated joy.  
  
Once Harry's in the tub, he insists that almost-five is quite old enough to take a bath without help (and he promises to wash well with lots of soap) so Remus tells him to call out if he needs anything and leaves the washroom-- and Sirius is waiting by the door, holding the glass of water in one hand and the pain-potion in the other, and the aggrieved look on his face is deeply familiar in spite of how much everything else has changed.  
  
Remus sighs and downs the potion, following it with a long drink of water that doesn't quite get rid of the bitter aftertaste, and puts the glass aside with what he hopes looks like a smile and not a grimace. 'You know those potions hardly do anything,' he points out wryly.  
  
He regrets it almost immediately, as Sirius gives him the most horrible kicked-dog look-- because of course he _does_ know, and now he's probably thinking of all the moons he's missed all the ways he might've helped--  
  
Remus grabs him by the shoulders-- hates how it feels like holding some sort of dessicated corpse. 'It's not your fault, Pads-- it's _not_.'  
  
Sirius is still for a moment, then he reaches out and twists his hands into Remus's pyjama shirt like he's afraid he'll drift away otherwise. '_Forty-five_, Remus,' he croaks.  
  
'For-- _oh_.' Forty-five _full moons_, since-- Remus can't imagine how he managed to keep track (or did he tally it up after?) but it sounds about right (it's not as though _he_ was counting, but that sort of thing always mattered more to Sirius and the others than it did him). '...Hell. Um. It's not been so bad, really.'  
  
'Bollocks,' Sirius growls. 'You look bloody awful.'  
  
Remus snorts and pushes him back. '_You're_ one to talk.' Sirius gives him a positively mutinous glare, and Remus continues forcefully. 'No, listen-- _fine_, it's been absolutely horrid and maybe I _can't_ take care of myself just like you've always said--' (he grimaces at that, because he spent years insisting he _can_ and now that's all tossed out the window) '--but at least _I've_ only had to put up with a couple bad days a month, and not _bloody dementors_ for nearly four years straight.'  
  
Sirius stares at him-- can't think of a reply, at least not one he's willing to say out loud (he thinks he _deserved_ it, Remus can see in his eyes-- but he bites it back, which is just as well because Remus doesn't know how to counter something like that).  
  
Remus takes advantage of the pause and starts back towards the main room. 'So, you made rice?' he says mildly, heading for the cooker.  
  
He _feels_ Sirius trailing after him more than hears it (because Sirius has always had a knack for moving about silently, sometimes to an almost unsettling degree) and knows Sirius is staring at him but tries his best to ignore it as he serves up the rice.  
  
'I'm... surprised you kept that,' Sirius says quietly, a moment later.  
  
Remus goes still, one hand on the lid. '...I nearly didn't,' he admits. 'But Lily got this for you, and...' And he can't exactly afford to replace things on a werewolf's limited income, but he doesn't want to bring _that_ up any sooner than he needs to. He sets two bowls down on the table. 'Here-- eat.'  
  
'Had some already,' Sirius replies, still lingering near the wall like he's trying to take up as little space as possible.  
  
Remus rolls his eyes. 'Humour me, then.' He flicks his wand, shifting a stack of books and papers off the second chair (he hasn't needed more than one in years, living on his own with no one left to visit him) and summons it to the table. 'There. Sit.'  
  
Sirius crosses his arms. 'Want me to beg and roll over too?'  
  
'_Oh_\-- sorry, I didn't mean--' he starts, but there's just the faintest flicker of amusement in Sirius's eyes. Remus groans and drops into his own chair. 'You're terrible, you know. _Please_ sit with me?'  
  
Sirius snorts, then grabs the chair and turns it around backwards and sits astride it, and pulls the second bowl towards himself. Remus watches him with a pointed look, and after a moment he rolls his eyes and takes up the offered fork, too.  
  
Remus wishes he could blame the years in Azkaban for that, but he's known Sirius far too long, knows he was every bit as bad before-- always acting as though his horrible Pureblood-obsessed mother had single-handedly invented table manners as some deplorable Black Family Tradition and he's causing her personal offence by eating with his fingers. A bit immature, perhaps, but... Remus reminds himself to be patient, because Sirius looks like a stiff breeze could knock him over; clearly he needs friendship and support right now, not criticism of every little less-than-polite thing he does.  
  
After a few minutes (once he's had enough rice to feel a bit more awake and finally get the potion aftertaste out of his mouth) Remus sets his own fork aside. 'So then... Peter...?'  
  
Sirius looks at Remus over the top of his bowl (he's sitting draped over the back of the chair, both elbows on the table and his face only inches above his food) and after a pause he lets the fork drop from his fingers with a clatter and nods. 'Alive.' His eyes are hollow, like he's seeing something Remus can't. '...Though not for lack of _trying_,' he adds darkly. 'I'd've _done_ it, if I could.'  
  
Remus regards him sadly-- and he doesn't doubt it. Sirius always had a _hard_ side to him-- was the only one of them to actually say _kill_ when they spoke of fighting Death Eaters (while the rest of them used softer words, _stop_ or _capture_ or _defeat_). And he was even _related_ to so many of them, his cousins, his own brother-- but maybe that's why. Maybe he felt responsible because they were his own blood. Remus had never asked, wasn't sure he wanted to know.  
  
He reaches out, across the table, takes one of Sirius's hands (cold, like ice-- like the _dead_, but Remus won't allow himself that thought). '...What really happened?'  
  
Sirius falls silent, runs his free hand over his filthy hair, takes a deep breath '...Everyone _knew_ he'd pick me,' he finally says. 'Wasn't any secret that we were good as brothers, after I walked out... it was too obvious. They'd have come after me, and-- I would _never_ have given it up, not _willingly_, but they have _ways_.' He swallows, hard. 'They can tear what they want right out of your head-- _especially_ when they don't care about leaving you sane after. It would've been a gamble-- if they ever caught me, it'd be over for all of us.' He lets out a bitter laugh. 'And I _would've_ got caught, in the end.'  
  
Remus wants to offer some reassurance, but Sirius is almost certainly right about _that_\-- he was never one to quietly lie low while others placed themselves in danger, could never have stayed away from the fighting indefinitely... 'So you switched. For Peter.'  
  
Sirius nods again, face twisted with self-loathing. 'Was my idea-- thought it was the perfect ruse; who would ever choose a talentless and pathetic person like _him_ for something so important?-- and Prongs didn't _like_ it but he and Lily agreed in the end.' Sirius takes a deep breath. 'Should've _known_ something was wrong, seeing how fast Wormtail agreed... but I figured maybe he'd finally grown a spine, or just wanted the excuse to stay off the front lines, go into hiding himself...' Sirius's grip tightens around Remus's hand, slender bony fingers far stronger than they appear. 'But he was a bloody lying _sneak_ all along-- how could I _not_\--'  
  
'_None_ of us saw it coming,' Remus interrupts, his tone soft. 'We _all_ second-guessed everything back then... never knew who had gone over...'  
  
'Should never have doubted _you_,' Sirius mumbles. 'Remus--'  
  
'That makes _both_ of us,' he cuts in forcefully, and thinks once again of all the awful things he let himself believe Sirius had done... 'Both complete idiots.'  
  
'Chasing our tails,' Sirius adds, with just the faintest twitch of his mouth.  
  
Remus resists the urge to groan at the canine reference, smiles weakly instead. 'Quite.'  
  
Silence falls, and Sirius loosens his death-grip on Remus's hand, lets Remus trace the lines of his palm. His hands are as skeletal as the rest of him, the nails dirty and ragged and chipped, the fingers too cold even where Remus has been holding them...  
  
'...I almost took Harry then,' Sirius admits softly. 'In Godric's Hollow. But Hagrid... he said it'd all been sorted. So I went after Peter--' His eyes are hollow again, like ice. 'I knew _exactly_ what he'd done soon as I laid eyes on him, alive and well-- and _he_ knew I'd kill him for it. So he-- he shouted that _I'd_ betrayed Lily and James, and blew a massive hole in the street behind his back, and _cut off his own finger_\-- and then turned into a rat and just...' Sirius slumps down on the table. '...Hardly remember anything after that. Probably cracked, for a bit... and next thing I knew I was shipped off to Azkaban.'  
  
Remus thinks of the rumours he tried not to listen to-- that Sirius was _laughing_ when they picked him up, standing in the middle of a ruined street surrounded by dead or dying muggles, with Pettigrew's bloody and shredded robes at his feet. Remus can see it now, and he _understands_\-- that it was never out of sick cruelty (as it must have appeared to be) but maddened by grief, hit by the revelation that he'd been played for a fool, had unwittingly made it all possible... Remus can see it written all over his face, how the betrayal torments him but not nearly so much as the guilt over letting it happen, hating his own helplessness...  
  
'...So Peter's still out there,' Remus finishes quietly, and Sirius nods, and it's easy enough to see why he broke out of Azkaban-- Remus really wants to ask _how_ (because that's supposed to be impossible, even for someone like Sirius who has always had a remarkable talent for getting into and out of places he really shouldn't be able to) but now doesn't seem like a good time to bring it up. '...Well,' says Remus. 'This has been quite an eventful morning.'  
  
Sirius looks up at him, through a curtain of filthy hair. 'Er. Afternoon, actually.'  
  
'_After_\--' Remus echoes, and starts to stand, but Sirius clings to his fingers and he sits back down with a bump. '...You switched off my alarm,' he says, and can't muster up the energy to make it sound properly accusatory (or really anything other than resigned).  
  
'...I might have,' Sirius mumbles, and fidgets-- but Remus doesn't think he's very sorry about it. After a moment he looks up again. '...I _might_, also, have borrowed your wand for a moment, and done a small drowsiness charm-- you just looked so--'  
  
Remus isn't quite sure what to say (he'll almost certainly be sacked, for one thing, but he'd really rather not get into _that_ right now, and it's not as though he actually cares about washing dishes at that greasy little muggle pub anyway) and in the end he just settles on, 'Borrowed.'  
  
'Mm, yeah.' Sirius blinks at him solemnly. 'They take those away in Azkaban, you see.'  
  
It's such a _stupid_ thing to say, and so stupidly _him_, that Remus lets out a groan (the sort that's almost a laugh) before he can stop himself. Sirius gives him a ghost of a smile in response, and for a minute everything feels almost like it used to, almost like it could be _right_ again...  
  
Nothing is so simple, though. Remus sighs and straightens up in his chair. 'But, Sirius... about Harry...'  
  
Sirius scowls and pulls his hand back. 'Urgh-- you're doing your _Prefect Face_.'  
  
'I'm. _What_?'  
  
'You know. That _Look_ you'd pull out when we were having a bit of fun and bending a few little rules--' (Remus snorts loudly and rolls his eyes at this gross understatement, because he's pretty sure that between them Padfoot and Prongs managed to break every single rule in the book, and a few that hadn't even been made yet just for good measure) '--and you knew you were supposed to stop us because you had your shiny little badge.'  
  
Remus crosses his arms. '_Did_ I ever stop you.'  
  
Sirius considers this. 'Well. No.'  
  
'Even when what you were doing was, frankly, _horribly_ dangerous and might've got us all killed... did I ever once even _try_ to stop you and Prongs?'  
  
'...I suppose not.'  
  
Remus snorts. 'Give me a _little_ credit, then-- one of us had to at least _pretend_ to care about the rules, you know, or we'd never have got away with half of what we did.'  
  
Sirius grins, and that glimmer of his old irresistible charm shines through again, past the years of suffering Azkaban has laid on him. 'Fair enough.'  
  
Remus tears his gaze away, sighs profoundly. 'Look, Pads... I just want to know what you mean to _do_\-- raise him yourself? How will you--'  
  
The smile vanishes, and Remus can see that he's... already thought of most of the things Remus wants to say, for once. That he's a convict on the run, that he's immature and reckless and spent the last few years _barely sane_, that he hasn't got the faintest idea how to take care of a child, much less the means to provide for one. He _knows_, and... here he is anyway, giving Remus his most stubborn glare.  
  
'..._You_ help me, then,' he says flatly. 'Help me take care of him.'  
  
'I--' Remus groans and sits back in his chair. 'I'm a _werewolf_, Sirius! I _can't_ raise a child! What if I--'  
  
'Better a werewolf than those muggles they left him with,' Sirius growls back. 'Those-- _people_, they would've _killed_ him if he stayed! They were treating him like some sort of-- like he was their bloody _house-elf_, and they--' He slumps over the table, head falling into his hands. 'They were _hurting_ him. Moony, _please_...'  
  
And Remus can see it again, the old pain Sirius could never quite hide when _family_ came up-- they all knew Sirius never got on with his, of course, and no one bothered to ask _why_ after nearly all of them turned out to be Death Eaters, but... Remus always got the feeling that it went back long before that, something far _deeper_ and more personal. It went away for a while, during those brief golden years when they were all living out of each other's flats... and now it's _back_, and Remus wishes he knew how to help.  
  
'I don't know,' he says quietly. 'Dumbledore said--'  
  
'_Fuck_ whatever Dumbledore said,' Sirius snaps, lurching to his feet with enough force that he nearly knocks the chair over. 'He's _terrified_ of them, Remus! They made him live in a _cupboard_, and _starved_ him and _beat_ him and--' He takes a deep breath. 'Ask Harry. Ask _him_ if you don't believe me, but I'd sooner go back to _Azkaban_ than let those muggles anywhere _near_ him.'  
  
'I-- of course I believe you,' says Remus. 'But... maybe Dumbledore could--'  
  
'You go to _him_, and we're leaving,' says Sirius flatly-- Remus opens his mouth to reply, but Sirius talks over him. 'No, _listen_, where was Dum-- where were the _Order_ when I got handed over to the dementors without so much as a bloody _hearing_?' Sirius paces across the small room, eyes wild. 'Where were they when-- d'you know how _easy_ it was for me to get to him? And he followed Padfoot right off, just like that, and no one even-- I don't even have a _wand_, Remus; if I'd been a real Death Eater--'  
  
Remus can feel the blood drain from his face at-- well, _both_ of those things. Sirius just _taking_ Harry is worrying enough, but-- _no trial?_ It's a miracle Sirius still trusts _him_ enough to ask for help (since he'd believed it too, simply accepted it and tried not to think of it any more than he had to). He gets up and puts his hands on Sirius's shoulders (he looks exhausted now, the restless energy leaving him all at once, as abruptly as it appeared). 'Pads, I-- oh, come _here_.' He pulls Sirius against him, and Sirius just whimpers softly against his neck. 'Of _course_ I won't tell-- that's the least I can do.'  
  
Sirius takes a deep breath, shudders in a way that reminds Remus of brittle dry leaves in winter. 'Sorry,' he croaks. 'I... _know_ you trust him, after all he did for you, and I know you think this is all a _bloody awful_ idea, but--'  
  
'It's fine, Pads,' Remus murmurs. 'We'll... figure something out. Just you and me.'  
  
Sirius just lets out a dry sob, and Remus doesn't know _how_ they'll ever manage because _Sirius_ was always such a strong steady presence, the one who looked out for _him_ (whether he wanted it or not) and Sirius only rarely needed any sort of support in return (and always seemed to pull it back together so easily, on the rare occasions he did)... but now he feels so _fragile_ like he's on the verge of crumbling away into dust and Remus is barely keeping it together himself, has never had to really take care of anyone else before...  
  
He'll _try_ anyway, though, because Sirius Black has never run away from trouble even when it's his own life on the line, and now they're the only ones left.

* * * 

By the time Harry emerges from the bath (fingers distinctly pruney) they're both sitting quietly at the table again, bowls empty, too drained to say much of anything-- though Sirius keeps sneaking glances at Remus (and more than once he catches Remus doing the same to him) because this is _strange_ and he's not sure what to make of it.  
  
He had hours waiting outside the door in that grimy stairwell, and hours more after he finished bandaging the gashes on Remus's arms and got him into bed, and he'd spent all of it bracing himself for anger and hate-- Remus would want to help Harry (Sirius had been sure of that much or he wouldn't have come at all) but the best he'd dared hope for had been that Remus might tolerate his presence for Harry's sake, might believe him well enough to not notify the aurors, might let him stay a few days until he could come up with a proper long-term plan... he'd never dreamt that he might receive _kindness_.  
  
But Remus has always been like this-- Sirius does terrible reckless things, makes indelible mistakes with deadly consequences, and Remus never gets angry even when he has every right to, never comes out and _says_ any of the things he must surely be thinking...  
  
Remus settles Harry down with his illustrated Magical Creatures book (and a promise to read from it later) and Sirius half wishes Remus _would_ get properly angry, as he lets himself be pulled out of his chair and dragged into the washroom--  
  
And then Moony closes the door, very firmly, with _both_ of them inside.  
  
'Moony...' he starts, and then loses track of what he meant to say. Under the harsh electric lights, Remus looks even more drawn and sickly than ever before, and when he bends to turn the taps Sirius can see there's actually _grey hair_ at his temples. 'Moony, you should-- _please_, go lie down, or--' Sirius fidgets, looks around, wishing he could _move_ but with the two of them there's no room for pacing. '_Fuck's sake_, Moony, I don't need your help to take a _bath_.'  
  
Remus, apparently, has gone temporarily deaf. He placidly adjusts the temperature of the water, humming tunelessly to himself, and doesn't reply.  
  
'You let _Harry_ wash himself, and he's _four_.'  
  
'Almost five,' Remus says blandly.  
  
'Right, and I'm--' He falls silent. Realises he can't even remember-- and Moony _looks_ at him, and he knows they're both thinking of how he counted the full moons but obviously didn't bother with his own birthdays.  
  
'...Anyway, Harry didn't have years' worth of filth caked on,' Remus points out.  
  
Sirius growls softly. This is probably some sort of obscure revenge for all the post-full-moon care sessions, only _he's_ rather more awake than Moony ever is in the mornings, which makes it several times more embarassing and not at all fair. But Remus is very stubborn on the rare occasion he finds reason to be, and Sirius is too worn down to fight it.  
  
'..._Fine_. Do what you want. But-- turn those off.' He nods up at the muggle lights.  
  
Remus quirks an eyebrow. 'And here I thought you liked it, with all the times we saw you starkers back at--' But then he breaks off (perhaps seeing something in Sirius's eyes) and flicks his wand once to flip the switches and a second time to cast a single dim _lumos_ towards the ceiling. 'Better?' he asks, almost apologetically.  
  
Sirius nods. He doesn't want to explain how it's one thing when you're seventeen and want all your best mates to see how fit you are-- or how he _stopped_ caring sometime during the past few years of unending nightmares, wouldn't mind if it was almost anyone else but this is _Moony_ and--  
  
Remus shuts off the taps and automatically turns to face the wall. Sirius bites his lip, eyes burning, then strips and slides into the water before he can break down completely.  
  
'We can burn those later, if you like,' Remus says to the wall, carefully nudging the discarded Azkaban robes into the corner with a toe.  
  
'Good plan,' Sirius mumbles, as low in the water as he can get himself.  
  
A few minutes pass in silence; Remus seems lost in thought, and the water feels surprisingly _nice_, enough that Sirius nearly drifts off-- and then jolts awake again with a yelp and a splash. Remus (thankfully) doesn't comment, simply reaches for the soap and sits down alongside the tub and lifts the mess of hair off the back of his neck. Sirius doesn't quite want to _say_ it, but he's... grateful he's not alone, even if he definitely doesn't deserve it.  
  
'Hang on,' Remus says after a moment, 'you've got a...' He pulls something out of Sirius's hair, and holds it up to the _lumos_ to get a better look. '...Hate to say it, Pads, but I don't think all the hairpins in the world are going to help you with this mess.'  
  
Sirius glances at it, and snorts softly. 'It's for locks.'  
  
'...I suppose you _did_ get in here without a wand,' Remus replies pensively. 'I forgot you knew how to do that.'  
  
Sirius shrugs. 'Useful, isn't it? And you know what I think of locks.' He starts to reach for the pin, but Remus sets it carefully aside, where it won't get lost in the water.  
  
'Too well,' Remus says, and can't quite keep the amusement from his voice. 'Haven't got anything else hidden in here, have you?'  
  
'Not intentionally, no,' Sirius replies, and Remus hums and checks it over himself-- it's probably for the best that Sirius has spent most of the time since escaping as a dog, or it'd be in an even worse state than it is...  
  
'...Right,' Remus says after a moment, 'I think I know a disentangling charm that might help with this.' He sounds rather doubtful (possibly because Remus has always preferred his own hair short enough that he's never had to bother with that sort of thing, or because Sirius's hair is such a mess that most people would immediately give it up for a lost cause) but Remus lifts his wand anyway. 'Is that alright?'  
  
Sirius just grunts in agreement and accepts a bar of soap from Remus, and doesn't say anything more-- doesn't ask why Moony has decided it's worth the effort, doesn't try to put into words why that actually means something.  
  
It's one of the many little things Sirius has never said out loud, not even among his closest friends-- that he's always disliked fresh haircuts and how they make his ears and the back of his neck feel cold and exposed (not to mention the _other_ reasons, how it was another thing he was never permitted to decide for himself, another thing that always had to be well-kept and tidy and no less than perfect-- that he likes them least of all when it's someone else doing it). He doesn't know whether Moony somehow picked up on all of that, or if it's no more than an odd coincidence. He doesn't ask, isn't sure he wants the answer; he scrubs roughly at his skin and tries not to think about it.  
  
The water rapidly goes murky and dark (so he supposes it's doing some good at least) and Remus attempts a few different charms on his hair, with somewhat mixed results-- it smells a bit singed by the time he's finished, and Sirius is pretty sure a good chunk of it has parted with his scalp, but at least the comb will go through it. Which, Sirius has to admit, is a good deal better than what he would have been able to manage on his own, so Moony wins that one.  
  
In the end, it takes most of Remus's supply of soap and a handful of scouring charms before they refill the tub (for what's probably the third or fourth time; Sirius wasn't counting) and the water doesn't go instantly dark and opaque. Remus leaves him with a stack of towels and some spare clothes (threadbare pyjama bottoms and an oversized jumper that smells achingly _homey_) and once he's decent Remus returns and sits him on the toilet lid to help him shave properly, followed by an offer to magic his teeth clean (badly needed by now, as toothbrushes are among the things not provided to Azkaban inmates).  
  
The tooth-cleaning charm is even more unpleasant than Sirius remembers them being, or perhaps it's the sort of thing that gets exponentially worse the longer you've gone without-- in any case, it feels like having his teeth rattled around his skull and the rest of his mouth stripped of its outermost layer of skin, and that very abruptly pushes past the limits of what he can take. He turns back into a dog and slinks out the door and curls up at Harry's side on the rug.  
  
Harry scritches his ears, which makes up for it a little bit. 'See-- that's much better, isn't it?'  
  
'I don't think he liked the tooth-cleaning charm very much,' Remus says apologetically, emerging from the washroom as well.  
  
Sirius huffs out a breath and looks at Harry as if to say _you'd hate it too_, and Harry winces in sympathy, which Sirius thinks is the only appropriate response to tooth-cleaning charms.  
  
Harry looks up at Remus. 'Is that like going to the _dentist_?' he asks with a grimace. 'The Dursleys made me go, because Dudley'd throw a fit if they took him and not me.'  
  
Sirius lifts his head with a soft growl, and Remus falls onto the couch. 'S'alright, Pads; that's just the muggle tooth-healer.' Sirius settles back-- he supposes it can't be too awful if the hell-muggles made their pampered little Piggy go, after all...  
  
'What's _muggle_ mean?' says Harry.  
  
'A non-magical person,' Remus explains. 'Your aunt and uncle and cousin are muggles.'  
  
'Do I have to do the tooth-cleaning spell too, since I'm magic now?' he asks, his tone somewhere between apprehensive and fascinated-- excited at the prospect of seeing more magic, but he would very much prefer a more pleasant (and non-tooth-related) experience.  
  
'No, I'll go out later and get you both toothbrushes,' says Remus. 'If you brush every day, you won't need the charm.'  
  
'Are magic toothbrushes very different from normal ones?'  
  
Remus smiles at that. 'No, toothbrushes are just toothbrushes.' He leans forward and gestures at the book. 'So, Harry-- have you decided what creatures you'd like me to read about?'  
  
Harry turns carefully through the pages, back to the centaur. 'Start with this one. Padfoot told me about them.'  
  
'Oh, did he?' says Remus, and picks up the book to read off a couple passages, before going on to tell a wide-eyed Harry about one of the times he and Padfoot and Harry's dad had encountered centaurs in the Forbidden Forest at Hogwarts-- and then, of course, Harry wants to hear all about Hogwarts, because it hadn't occurred to him that there were _whole schools_ just for learning magic, and it's another glimpse into the lives of the parents he never had the chance to know, the world he's only just begun to learn about but already feels he _belongs_ in far more than he ever did with the Dursleys...  
  
Sirius really _means_ to keep alert, but the exhaustion is finally catching up to him and Moony's scent is all around him like a warm blanket and the familiar voice fills the shabby little basement flat like something almost tangible...  
  
..._Almost_, but not quite. It's too far away, too much like a dream, like echoes and phantoms and-- surely no more than a desperate delusion, a madman's foolish fixation--  
  
_ The stones are damp and cold. He can feel it sink into his bones; the wind blows through the cracks in the walls and whistles along the bare high vent-slits that let the grey light leak in, light and dark, dark and light... It reeks of dead fish and drowned things, and the chill briny seawater creeps into his veins, ebb and flow, and the rattling and sucking of their cold clammy breath fills his own mouldering lungs, in and out, in and out..._  
  
_ Moaning, screaming, crying; all around him and sometimes his but often not. Sometimes it's the shrill high cold voice, a woman, and invisible cords twist around his limbs and hold him down as slow agony creeps in his veins and teeming scuttling things crawl under his skin, maggots and beetles and worms. Cold slimy slithering things fill his mouth fill his lungs and he chokes and gasps and she screams be still be silent don't misbehave, tells him that naughty children belong to the dark._  
  
_ Rats crawl over him and he can't move, can't speak; the rat is a young man with mousy hair and he says how could you kill them you monster you demon you traitor, you should crawl back to your foul pit and lie there and fester and rot; the face shrinks into whiskers and long front teeth and the rat slips away into the dark, into narrow cracks where he can't follow, fingers raw and bleeding as he claws at the broken rubble--_  
  
_ Bad children sleep on cold damp stones, shut away in the dark until they're sorry, until they change; he hurts and he tries but it never ends, is never enough. He feels himself drown but still breathes, feels himself on fire but the flames are cold as ice, feels skin peel away and turn inside out and slither back all wrong; his tongue is glued down and his teeth locked together and he smells a feast he can't eat and lies in water he can't drink, and he begs he screams he cries, but they turn away, tall backs and stiff shoulders and hidden faces-- they leave him again and again to the cold and the damp and the dark--_  
  
'Pads-- _Sirius_, wake up!'  
  
He tries to yell and it comes out somewhere between a whine and a growl and he tries to get up but his legs won't cooperate and he can't remember whether he's a man or a dog, a small child or some loathsome scuttling insect--  
  
And then his nose presses into soft knit fabric and the _scent_ pulls him back, grounds him, and Moony's arms fold around him and he's _here_\-- but too numb, too cold-- scared it's not real and never was, but not sure what to do if it _is_...

* * * 

Slowly, Sirius settles back down, huddled close between them, and Remus tries very much not to worry-- or at least not _show_ it, for Harry's sake. Padfoot just had a nightmare, he explains gently, as Sirius shudders a little under his hands-- stays firmly dog-shaped, and Remus says _he'll be fine_ and knows he's trying to convince himself as much as Harry.  
  
Remus knows he really ought to go out for food, knows the errand is rather overdue even if it was still just him on his own-- but ultimately decides it can wait til tomorrow. He's not sure it's a good idea to leave them alone, or take Harry out (not without more planning, at least) and evening has crept up on him far too quickly (did he really sleep til afternoon? _honestly_) so he has a look through his cupboards and turns up some tinned beans, and apologetically asks if Harry would mind terribly if they have rice again.  
  
As it turns out, Harry isn't the least bit put off by the proposed meal-- he just shrugs and says it's better than the Dursleys, who apparently often gave him only the most meagre leftover scraps (or sometimes nothing at all) before making him do the washing. If he was _good_, Harry says, they wouldn't actually _lock_ his cupboard overnight (Remus is horrified to learn that he does really mean a _literal_ cupboard, the one under the stairs that's meant for keeping brooms and winter boots in and _not_ young children) and then Harry could sneak out if he was very quiet and careful, and perhaps take a handful of crisps or a bit of heavily watered-down juice, just enough that it wouldn't be missed.  
  
Sirius stirs at that, and growls and rests his head on Harry's knee, and there's a deep sort of _empathy_ in his eyes... and with an uncomfortable lurch Remus remembers how it was _Sirius_ who first showed all the rest of them where the Hogwarts kitchens were, how he offhandedly mentioned that he'd known for quite a while, _just in case_... the Blacks were old money, old blood, practically wizarding nobility and unfathomably wealthy, so it never occurred to him that Sirius might have been deprived of food at home, but in hindsight there's a lot of little details that start to fall into place--  
  
Remus has very little food in his flat at the moment, but he tells Harry that he's _always_ welcome to take as much as he needs and no one will ever be angry, and he promises that when they go to buy food tomorrow Harry can help to choose things he likes, even some sweets as long as he promises to eat healthy food first. Harry looks a bit overwhelmed, as though this all sounds a little too good to be true and he's not quite convinced it won't all turn out to be some awful joke, but Mr Moony has only been kind to him, so he allows himself to be tentatively excited.  
  
For now, though, they're stuck with the beans and rice-- Remus has never been much of a cook but he can manage this well enough, and (not wanting to spend the evening worrying about how he's ever going to find the _money_ to feed three people) he tells Harry where the rice cooker came from-- how Padfoot always had an odd fondness for muggle inventions, which Harry's mum found hilarious (because _she_ had come from a non-magical family and such things were all rather ordinary to her) so she'd taken to buying him kitchen appliances for birthdays and christmases-- always in the most garish colours and patterns she could find, which started out as a joke but which Padfoot had always insisted he loved.  
  
Harry listens with wide eyes, drinking in the details. It's clear that (before Padfoot's sudden appearance) no one had ever told Harry much of anything about his birth parents-- Remus recalls that Lily and her sister had hardly kept in touch at all during those last few years, and it occurs to him that Harry most likely doesn't even know what his parents _looked_ like (he was only fifteen months when they died, after all, too young to have any memories of his own-- and while Remus never met Petunia Evans in person, he doesn't get the impression that she's the type to keep photos of her estranged sister around the house).  
  
But _Remus_ has photos, and before he can stop to think if it's a good idea, he's already offered to show Harry. He blames the moon, or his own tiredness... or maybe it's how much Harry looks like _them_, or Sirius's impulsiveness has started rubbing off on him again. But whatever it was that came over him, he can't in any fairness redact the offer once it's been made, so he promises to fetch them out after they've eaten.  
  
Sirius stays over by the couch, curled up on the rug as a dog, while Remus prepares the food-- he might almost have been asleep, but even after all this time Remus still _knows_ him, can tell from the stiff angle of his shoulders and back that he's awake but only just, utterly exhausted but not trusting himself to drift off again. Once the food is ready, Remus goes over to invite him to the table... and ends up offering him a sleeping draft instead (one of the extra-strong ones he keeps on hand for the very bad nights, because pain-potions are next to useless and knocking himself out is the best he can hope for) and says he'll leave the rest of the food out so Sirius can eat when he's ready. Sirius stays quiet and dog-shaped, looks so horribly _helpless_, and after a moment he lifts his head up off his paws and nods.  
  
He changes back, just long enough to toss down the potion, and then he curls up with his nose tucked against his tail. Remus rubs a hand down his back (his spine standing out far too sharp under the shaggy dark fur) and then gets up and tells Harry that Padfoot needs to sleep right now and it'll just be the two of them.  
  
Harry seems a little crestfallen (as though he would have really liked to talk to Padfoot some more) but the burning curiosity about his parents is stronger; he eats quickly, and as soon as they've both finished he jumps up and attempts to clear the table. Remus sends their dishes to the sink with a wave of his wand (earning a bright smile) and gently reminds Harry that he doesn't need to do that sort of thing anymore-- here, they'll all work together to keep their living space clean-- and he says Harry can watch him do the cleaning-spells later.  
  
With a quick _accio_, he summons a somewhat battered box from the top of a bookcase-- the one he hasn't had the heart to open in years, the one full of old letters and photos and all the little odds and ends that had turned up in his flat during those last years of the war. He sorts through, finds the correct stack of envelopes, and spreads the photos across the table-- Harry watches, wide-eyed, and says how do they _move_ but hardly listens as Remus starts to reply because the existence of moving photographs pales in comparison to their subjects.  
  
Remus looks down as well, at all the images lying across his kitchen table like dozens of tiny faded windows to the past-- there's James and Lily's wedding, and the one of them outside their cottage in Godric's Hollow that made it into all the papers and history books, and a few of them with baby Harry, or with Sirius, or just hugging and laughing and _living_\-- and then there's the earlier and even-more-faded ones, from their years at school and summer holidays, Sirius and James at the Potters' old house and racing each other on broomsticks around the quidditch pitch and lazing about by the lake and--  
  
And there's a handful with Peter in them, too. Of course there are. Remus carefully picks them out (as _that's_ definitely not something a young child should hear, not yet) but luckily Harry's too fascinated by his parents' faces to spare much thought for a pudgy mousy-haired young man he's never known... lucky, Remus thinks, but _he_ can't help sneaking a slightly longer look at them, wondering _when_ Peter had gone over, if he'd already been passing information to Voldemort for weeks, months, _years_... and then he shoves the offending pictures out of sight and points to one showing the house in Godric's Hollow and tells Harry about how it's home to one of the oldest magical communities in Britain.  
  
Harry also stares at the pictures of Padfoot (doesn't comment on how _lively_ he used to be, but children are really quite perceptive and it'd be impossible to miss) and after a moment he looks up again and remarks that Mr Moony is hardly in any pictures at all. Remus just shrugs and says he never liked having his picture taken, and Harry leaves it at that and turns back to the photos.  
  
But Remus regrets that now, a little bit-- still hates how wan and sickly he always looks in them, how they don't quite capture the golden warmth he remembers, but... that's all he has left, now, and even if they're unflattering or embarassing he wishes there were more of them... wishes he'd had more to hold on to while everyone else celebrated _winning the war_ and he could think only of the _cost_, the grief and the pain, how _he_ was somehow the last one standing when he always assumed he'd be the first to go down, standing in the line of a deadly spell or getting cornered while out on one of his undercover jobs... he hadn't known what to do with himself, hadn't been able to see any way forward.  
  
They lapse into silence, and Remus wonders if maybe he can find a way to pull it all back together-- not all it should have been, but _something_. He doesn't know the answer to that, but thinks it has to be worth a try.  
  
Harry examines the pictures with great care, like he's trying to commit each one to memory, and occasionally he asks brief questions but more often he looks sombre and thoughtful like he's thinking of all the things he wants to ask but is saving them for later (perhaps so Padfoot can be there). And after a while, when he starts to stifle yawns, Remus makes up the couch for him, and Harry quickly falls asleep with one small hand on Padfoot's head, just behind the ears.  
  
Remus just stands there for a moment. Only twenty-four hours ago, he was bracing himself for a long agonising night of mindlessly screaming and clawing at the carefully-warded basement walls, with only the bleak prospect of endless dreary days spent struggling to survive once the moon released him-- months dragging on into years, and trying not to let himself wonder if it's even worth the effort-- and now he's got a dead friend's young son on his couch and an escaped convict on his rug, and he's unemployed _again_, and he's exhausted and aches all over and he really has no bloody idea how he's supposed to fix any of this (or even just _not_ cock it up horribly). He's in shock, maybe, just a bit.  
  
And then he takes a deep breath, and puts the kettle on for tea, and starts to gather up the photos and put them carefully away again (because if _he_ was only just ready to bring them out again then Sirius very definitely is not). There's no sense in dwelling on all those problems anyway, not now, not like _that_\-- better to take care of the smaller and more immediate things first, wait til they've all rested up...  
  
As he moves to return the stack of envelopes to the box, he finds one more photograph at the very bottom, half stuck under an extremely battered pack of muggle playing cards-- unlike all the other photos he's in, this one appears to be a candid shot, so for once he doesn't look as though he's just trying to get it over with-- looks genuinely happy. He's sitting just behind Sirius on the motorbike, both of them laughing as Sirius's shaggy hair flies in their faces, and Remus even has an arm around Sirius's waist and leans into his back. It's warm and friendly, and... if he didn't know better, he might've called it _intimate_.  
  
He flips it over, but there's no date or inscription on the back, nothing to indicate who might have taken it-- or give him any clues as to how it ended up in _his_ possession, as he truly can't recall ever seeing it before. He looks again-- at Sirius, his face bright and carefree and so awfully _young_, and--  
  
And in that moment, all he can think is that he desperately wants Sirius to laugh like that again, wants it so badly it _aches_.


	3. many paths turn at last to home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this is not intended as an anti-Dumbledore story, but there's going to be a bit of Salt directed towards him & certain choices he made (especially with regards to Harry's well-being). personally I do believe he meant well... but he also definitely failed to consider Harry's needs as an actual human person; not even the blood-protection should have justified placing a child with an abusive family.   


#### { many paths turn at last to home }

Remus Lupin's alarm clock goes off on the second morning after June's full moon, jerking him unpleasantly into an achey half-wakefulness, and for a few disoriented seconds he thinks how he ought to get up for work even though he would really rather not move at all-- and then his memory catches up, and he immediately pushes himself upright (though he can't quite suppress the faint groan in response to the creaking in his joints). He's been sacked after yesterday's missed shift, but now he has an actual compelling reason to get out of bed, one far more important than any of the pointless dead-end jobs he's been forced to take on-- and even if it can't mend the still-fresh gashes on his arms and down his sides, can't stop the sharp little twinges of pain from sparking along his spine and through his limbs, that makes the pain a little easier to bear. He's needed; he's not alone.  
  
He glances over at the clock again-- of course he's grateful it's gone off as intended, as he really can't afford to sleep through another full day when they're so low on food... but it's also a bit worrying, because it means Sirius _didn't_ try to turn it off, and that's really not like him. Remus rolls to his feet and tugs on his dressing gown, and heads out into the main room.  
  
Harry is already awake but hasn't got up yet; he's lying on the couch with the magical creatures book propped open in front of him, and looks up to give Remus a quiet _good morning_\-- very quiet, because Sirius is still asleep, though he must have woken sometime in the night since the black dog is now squashed onto the couch against Harry's feet and the bottle of sleeping draught is down another dose. Remus smiles and whispers a _good morning_ in return, before crossing over to the stovetop to put the kettle on for tea.  
  
The leftover beans and rice are still in the cooker (exactly as Remus left them the night before) which tells him that Sirius still hasn't eaten since yesterday afternoon. He sighs as he sets his mug on the countertop and fetches a teabag from the tin, but tells himself he shouldn't be too surprised (sleeping draughts always make him a bit queasy, after all; perhaps the same is true for Sirius). Still, it's difficult not to worry-- he thinks how Sirius is far too thin, too frail; how he was always so bright and vibrant that he seemed to fill up every room he entered but now he's too cold too quiet like he's trying to take up as little space as possible--  
  
Harry gets up carefully (so he doesn't wake Padfoot) and heads over to the table, and Remus smiles wanly and tells himself _one thing at a time_ and offers Harry breakfast.  
  
But this forces Remus to confront the pitiful reality of his near-empty cupboards, and he's ashamed to find that all he has to offer is a box of slightly-stale cornflakes (without even any milk to go on top) which is a piss-poor excuse for a proper meal (Remus could kick himself for being so woefully unprepared going into the full, except he knows exactly why he couldn't be bothered and it's far too depressing to admit out loud). He apologises profusely, but Harry insists he doesn't mind (even when Remus assures him it's fine if he does) so they split the rest of the cornflakes between them and Remus tries to swallow the guilt along with the bland dry cereal.  
  
After they've eaten and cleaned the dishes (which Remus does by magic as promised, and Harry watches with wide-eyed wonder even when Remus explains that it's only a simple scouring charm) there's not much else to be done until Sirius's potion has worn off, so Remus pulls out an old checkerboard and the deck of muggle playing cards, and offers to teach Harry some games to pass the time.  
  
Harry says that his neighbour Mrs Figg already taught him checkers as they set up the board, and Remus blinks and asks if he means _Arabella_ Figg, and Harry says yes he thinks that was her full name, and takes the first move.  
  
Remus plays without really thinking about the game. He's never met Arabella Figg in person but he remembers the name from back in his Order days-- one of the squibs Dumbledore had enlisted as part of his extensive information network. If it really is the same woman (and he can't bring himself to believe it might be a coincidence) then it's certainly no accident she wound up living near the Dursleys and acting as occasional babysitter for young Harry.  
  
He's... not sure yet whether that's something else they ought to be worried about. If Dumbledore had people watching the house and checking in on Harry, how much did they all really know about the Dursleys' abuse-- had they simply missed all the signs, or had they seen it and chosen to do nothing? And had anyone seen the large black dog lingering around Privet Drive...?  
  
Harry wins at checkers. The first victory makes him grin, but after the second round (which goes even faster) he pouts and accuses Mr Moony of losing on purpose, and says that's no fun at all and he doesn't want to play anymore if Mr Moony won't even _try_.  
  
Remus sighs and sits back in his chair and apologises, because while he didn't actually _mean_ to throw the games he was distracted and not really paying attention, and no, that wasn't fair to Harry.  
  
Harry gives him a very long look. 'Mr Moony... is Padfoot very sick?' he asks quietly.  
  
Remus runs a hand over his hair. 'He's... no, not exactly. He's just had a rough go of it lately.'  
  
Harry doesn't appear convinced. 'He _looks_ sick, when he's person-shaped, and he's still not woken up.'  
  
Remus studies his small face for a moment (those bright clever eyes and fixed stubborn jaw) and then he straightens up in his chair. 'Harry... you know how you've been looking through that book about magical creatures?' He pauses while Harry nods, then continues, 'There are many wonderful and fascinating creatures in our world, but there are also some that are not very nice at all-- ones that make you feel like you'll never be happy again, just by being near them. And Padfoot-- he had to live with those creatures, for a very long time.'  
  
Harry is quiet for a moment, frowning thoughtfully. '...Sort of like living with the Dursleys, then?'  
  
'Hmm...' Remus pauses and looks over at Sirius (still huddled on the couch) while he tries to sort out how to explain the concept of dementors to a young child without giving him nightmares... and after a moment he turns back to Harry. 'When you were living with your Aunt and Uncle, did you ever try to imagine that things would get better one day?'  
  
Harry nods again. 'Sometimes, I thought... maybe I'd get too big for my cupboard and they'd _have_ to give me Dudley's second bedroom, or they'd let me just stay home alone instead of going to Mrs Figg and I'd get to watch whatever I wanted on the telly... or...' He looks over at Padfoot too. 'Or maybe I'd have some sort of... secret family, who might come and take me away,' he adds quietly (in such a way that Remus thinks this must have been the one thing he wanted above all else).  
  
Remus puts a hand on Harry's shoulder. 'When you were with the Dursleys, you had _hope_\-- even when things seemed horrible, you could still imagine a world where everything was better-- that someone like Padfoot would come for you.' Remus takes a deep breath. 'But the place where Padfoot had to live-- he wasn't able to think about any nice things at all. The bad creatures made him forget that it was even _possible_ for things to get better... or that they ever had been.'  
  
Harry's eyes go very wide. 'But... he got away from those monsters... didn't he?'  
  
'Yes, he did. But I think...' Remus pauses again. 'It's a bit like keeping a garden-- if there's a very bad winter, sometimes all your plants die, and then you have to start over with new ones... but it takes time for everything to grow back. What Padfoot went through was like that sort of bad winter, so we just need to be patient.'  
  
'But... he _will_ get better, right?' says Harry, in a small voice that sounds uncertain and a little afraid.  
  
'I know he _wants_ to,' says Remus gently. 'And he's never been the sort of person to give up without a fight-- I'm sure he's doing the best he can right now.'  
  
Harry takes a moment to consider this. '...Padfoot said being a dog makes him think quieter,' he says. 'D'you think that's why he's staying dog-shaped most of the time, instead of being a person? Because his head's still all messy and full of bad things?'  
  
'It's possible,' Remus sighs, with another glance towards the couch-- now that Harry has brought it up, he can remember the handful of times Sirius did this sort of thing back during the war, spending the nights after particularly rough missions curled up as a dog at Remus's feet-- though, admittedly, never to this degree. Remus tries to imagine rolling all his worst days into one and sticking them on an endless repeating cycle... but he's pretty sure nothing he imagines could ever come close to the horrible reality of living among dementors. '...I do think being a dog helps him, one way or the other.'  
  
Harry sits a little straighter. 'He seemed better when we were outside, too. Can we take him for a walk when he wakes up?'  
  
This startles Remus into laughing, warm and heartfelt, for the first time in years-- he finds he can't help himself. 'He's not really... _that_ much of a dog, you know,' he says once he's caught his breath. 'But yes, I think that's an excellent idea, Harry-- a bit of fresh air will do us all some good.'  
  
Harry smiles, and then says they can play checkers again but only if Mr Moony really _tries_, and Remus smiles back and promises he will.

* * *

It's the laughter that wakes Sirius-- deeply familiar, or at least he knows it should be. He'd once known its exact cadence by heart, bright and warm and far too precious to lose... so, naturally, it had been stripped from his memory along with everything else he'd ever found beautiful. That's the real cruelty of Azkaban, he thinks; the things you most desperately want to hold onto are the first to go, bleeding out into the ravenous air to be devoured and broken down to nothing, crushed between the irreverent tides and the barren rocky shore...  
  
But now it's jumping the gaps in his mind, returning to him in small stuttering fragments-- his first instinct is to kick it all away, press it back into the darkest recesses of his being before _They_ can come for it-- but the scent of Wolf folds around him, warm and comfortable, standing as a shield between him and the creeping cold, and it gives him the strength to reach out and hold on.  
  
He remembers-- at first in a vague shimmery sort of way like it's a dream he's just woken up from, but instead of slipping away like ashes crumbling through his fingers he finds it growing stronger, solidifying into something he can believe is real. He remembers how Moony has never been the sort to laugh easily-- even back at Hogwarts, he always had a tendency to be quiet and solemn, perhaps some unfortunate side effect of growing up a werewolf, a boy who had already understood by age eleven exactly how harsh and cold the world can be to those who don't _fit_. Sirius had learnt that lesson too, just as early, but he'd taught himself defiance along with it, taught himself to laugh as though that alone could burn away the cold and push back the dark. He remembers both sides of it-- the old fears, being trapped underground and the bitter taste of cellar dirt, but also what it felt like to break _free_. Running, flying, laughing; everything always circling back to Moony... beautiful clever wonderful Remus Lupin with his secret smiles and the mischievous devious nature he keeps carefully tucked away behind the calm and polite facade, but Sirius knows it was only ever an act and he remembers the delight of drawing out that hidden brilliance.  
  
The last dregs of the sleeping draft leave everything feeling fuzzy and indistinct; he lies there a bit longer, as the bright laughter fades back to soft quiet movements and occasional murmuring voices he can't quite make out... it's lovely, of course, but also rather unsettling; he can't shake the fear that this tentative calm is all too fragile, that even the memory of it could be stripped from him in a single instant--  
  
He hops down to the floor and shakes himself out, then pads across the room as a dog. The switch back into human form isn't always pleasant (especially when his mind already isn't in the best space) so he puts it off until he's reached the kitchen table, then shifts and stands all in one fluid motion and tries not to think-- he ruffles a hand over Harry's head with a mumbled greeting that falls short of intelligible speech, and then drapes himself over Remus's shoulders from behind and pushes his nose into the soft hair just behind Remus's ear; _it's okay it's okay it's_\--  
  
'Hallo Pads,' says Remus, words vibrating through his chest under Sirius's arms, through thin jagged bones. 'Sleep well?'  
  
'Mmh,' Sirius grunts, and tilts his head forward-- Remus still looks exhausted from the moon, the skin around his eyes tinged grey. '...Sorry, Moony,' he croaks-- because Remus shouldn't have been left to do everything himself, not while he's still--  
  
'That's all right,' says Remus, patting him on the head. 'Really-- it's good that you were able to get some sleep.'  
  
Sirius gives a faint whine and leans harder into Moony, too worn out to feel appropriately self-conscious over how starved he is for the physical contact-- for that long stretch of years, he knew nothing but cold unforgiving stone, could remember human touch only as a stinging slap across the cheek, a too-large hand wrenching at his arm hard enough to leave fingerprint bruises. He'd forgot it could ever be like this, soft and warm, Remus's fingers finding the nice spot behind his ear (perfect for scritches)... and even in human form he can still smell the full moon on Remus's skin (he can't have showered yet, which isn't like him, but Sirius isn't complaining). He takes a deep breath, and--  
  
'Are you feeling any better now, Padfoot?' says Harry, with rather more concern than any almost-five-year-old should have for a grown man (especially one who is in theory supposed to be his guardian now). Sirius lifts his head abruptly (feeling a little guilty) as Remus's hand drops away.  
  
'Er-- yeah, a bit,' he replies, as a lock of his hair flutters against his cheek-- he's surprised how light and soft it feels, realises he forgot what it felt like to have it clean. That's not the most comforting thought, and rather distracting, and he shakes himself out a little. '...Potion helped,' he adds, trying to smile.  
  
'That's good,' says Remus mildly. 'Harry wants to take you for walkies.' His eyes are bright. 'I already told him yes on your behalf. Figured you wouldn't mind.'  
  
Sirius barks out a laugh. 'Well, since it's Harry, that's alright.' He winks across the table. 'Maybe I'll even play fetch if you ask nicely.'  
  
Harry grins at him, and Remus finally shrugs him off. 'Well, have something to eat first-- there's still some rice from last night.' Sirius starts towards the counter, and Remus continues without looking up from the checkerboard, 'Use a _bowl_, Pads. And a fork.'  
  
Sirius snorts and rolls his eyes, but obediently reaches for the cupboards anyway. Remus raises his eyebrows pointedly in silent response, and transfigures up a third chair before Sirius can sit on the table or the counter or the floor.  
  
'So you do know about forks,' says Harry, as Sirius falls into the newly-conjured chair in the slouchiest position he can manage. 'I thought maybe you didn't.'  
  
'Of course he does,' Remus sighs, as Sirius uses the fork to shovel too much rice into his mouth all at once. 'Padfoot just delights in behaving as though manners have personally offended him.'  
  
'Manners? Don't know her,' Sirius says through his mouthful, to prove the point. Remus kicks his shin under the table, and Harry giggles.  
  
Sirius smirks and props one foot up on the table and raises his eyebrows at Moony as he wolfs down his rice-- Remus gives him a despairing sort of look but seems to decide this is not a battle worth fighting, and sips his tea and turns back to the checkers.  
  
But now Sirius thinks of his awful mother's shrill voice, of Petunia Dursley's sour horsey face-- and he meets Harry's gaze, and can guess Harry is thinking much the same thing.  
  
He sits up and drops the offending foot back to the floor, and sets his half-finished bowl aside, and says quietly to Harry, 'You have to know all the rules so you can know when to break them, right?'  
  
Remus frowns a little-- Sirius thinks none of the others ever really _understood_, never needed to (because even Moony, accustomed to being hated and shunned for his lycanthropy, always had the support and love of his parents, always knew he was safe within his own home). But Harry returns the solemn look, and nods.  
  
Sirius smiles faintly. 'We're all right, here,' he says. 'Moony likes to fuss, but he's all bark and no bite.'  
  
Remus groans and rolls his eyes and mutters something that sounds a bit like _don't tempt me_, and then he looks back at Harry in a long-suffering sort of way. 'I really _would_ prefer if no one put their feet on the table, though.'  
  
'We'll try our best,' says Sirius (winking at Harry, who smiles back at him).  
  
'_You_ won't,' Remus replies with a snort.  
  
Sirius slides lower in his chair and stretches his arms over his head, making the bottom of the borrowed jumper ride up over the sharp ridges of his hips. 'So little faith, Moony,' he says with a smirk. 'You never know; maybe I'll surprise you.'  
  
Moony stares at him for a moment, and then coughs a little and turns back to the board to make his next move.  
  
Sirius takes up his bowl again and finishes his rice while Remus soundly beats Harry at checkers; Harry seems strangely pleased about losing, and says that he knew Mr Moony could win if he tried. Sirius raises his eyebrows at Remus (because winning against a child is hardly an amazing feat worth celebrating) and Remus just suggests in a mild tone that Harry should try playing against Padfoot, who has never deliberately lost at anything in his life (which Sirius figures is probably true; he hates losing).  
  
With that, Remus goes off to shower, and Harry says he's bored of regular checkers and proposes a few alterations to the rules that might make it more exciting, which Sirius is all for because normal checkers _is_ rather dull. This involves the addition of Double Kings (which can jump sideways over red squares as well as the usual diagonal moves and which are too tall to be jumped by non-king pieces) and temporary bonus power-ups for pieces that execute double or triple jumps.  
  
Remus emerges into the middle of a good-natured squabble about what sorts of powers a hypothetical Triple King should have and the conditions for acquiring one, and he just gives them a blank look as though he's wondering how they've managed to so thoroughly upend checkers in the span of the fifteen minutes it took him to wash up. They set aside the Triple King discussion and invite Moony to play what they've dubbed Better Checkers (which they've yet to actually play for themselves, because inventing the new rules is at least as much fun as implementing them) but Remus politely declines and reminds them that they've got to go buy groceries (and toothbrushes, and a few other things besides) before it gets too much later in the day.  
  
Harry runs to put his shoes on, and Sirius looks up at Remus and grabs his wrist. 'Do you think it's safe?' he asks quietly. 'It's been _days_\-- someone must have noticed he's missing by now...'  
  
'Hm. Well, you two can't stay inside forever,' Remus says sensibly, and then frowns. 'I suppose we'll have to look into all that, and sooner rather than later, but we can talk about it once we get back. We won't get very far on empty stomachs.'  
  
Sirius (already well acquainted with the rather depressing state of Remus's cupboards) can hardly argue with that logic. But... 'What if he's recognised?' he says, with a glance at Harry-- they still have the hat to cover the scar on his forehead, but his eyes are far too memorable as well, his skin and hair dark enough to make their startlingly bright green stand out in a way it never did on Lily.  
  
Remus seems to be thinking much the same thing. 'I've got a couple ideas-- Harry, would you come here a moment? I'd like to do a bit of magic on your clothes, if that's all right.'  
  
Harry is very eager to see more magic, and doesn't mind at all if Mr Moony alters his clothes because they're just Dudley's old things anyway, so Remus changes the colours and shrinks the baggy shirt and trousers down to a better fit and mends a handful of rips (he's had a lot of practise with that particular charm, as nearly all of his own clothes have come second-hand and he only replaces them when they quite literally fall to pieces) and while he's at it he crouches down and sticks the peeling bottoms of Harry's trainers back together as well. Once he's satisfied with that, Remus sits Harry on one of the chairs and explains the glamour charms-- unlike the spells he's done on Harry's clothes, these are pure illusion and won't actually change his features, but they will at least prevent him from being recognised on sight.  
  
Harry gives Sirius a critical look while Remus starts on the cosmetic charms. 'Are you really going out in your pyjamas?'  
  
Sirius glances down; the borrowed pyjama bottoms are a bit too big on him, brushing the floor behind his bare heels, and the old slightly-frayed jumper hangs loosely from his bony shoulders. He probably looks rather ridiculous (between the pyjamas and his horrible vampire face) and certainly not prepared to venture outdoors... but he just shrugs. 'Doesn't really matter long as I'm a dog the whole time, does it?'  
  
'I suppose not...' Harry wrinkles his nose as the spells settle over his face, like he's trying not to sneeze. 'But what about your other clothes, the wizardy-looking ones? Can't Mr Moony just use magic to clean them?'  
  
Sirius snorts. 'I'm fairly sure the dirt's the only thing holding those rags together at this point.'  
  
'He can't be seen in them anyway,' says Remus. 'We're going to be in nonmagical areas, so we have to look and act like Muggles.'  
  
'Oh.' Harry glances over Remus's clothes-- a shabby cardigan over a button-down shirt and carefully patched grey trousers, and mismatched socks. If he hadn't been holding a wand, he wouldn't have looked magical at all.  
  
Sirius grins and slouches against the cupboards. 'It's all right Harry-- you can tell him he dresses like an old man. He knows.'  
  
'Hm.' Remus tilts his head, looking over the charms on Harry's face. 'At least _I_ look like an ordinary Muggle, and not a medieval court jester poorly disguised as a rock concert attendee.'  
  
Sirius puts on his most supercilious look. 'Oh, I'm sure they tried to blast that particular branch off the family tree, but I'll have you know I'm _very_ proud of my court jester pedigree,' he says, though the mock-haughty tone is rather spoilt by the smile tugging at his mouth-- and then he blinks, his mind jumping backwards. '...And _you_ were the one who kept giving me those Muggle Rock t-shirts,' he adds brightly (pleased that he could remember this fact at all), 'so you've only yourself to blame for that.'  
  
Remus gives a little cough, his ears and cheeks gone faintly pink-- perhaps remembering some other piece still locked away to Sirius. Before Sirius can work out how to ask about it, he straightens up and pats Harry on the shoulder. 'Well, I think these spells should be enough for now.'  
  
Harry pokes at his face as he gets up, and turns to Sirius while Remus goes to put on his shoes. 'Do I look very different now?'  
  
Sirius bends over to have a better look-- at a glance, Harry's nose appears a different shape and his chin a bit rounder, his eyes brown instead of green, but under closer scrutiny the effect isn't quite natural-- even the best glamours tend to look a bit stiff and flat if you watch them long enough (and once detected they're easily dispelled) so they're far from ideal as a disguise. Sirius lifts one shoulder in response to the question and tugs the knit hat down over Harry's forehead. 'Different enough. Just keep your scar covered and try not to draw attention to yourself.'  
  
'I know,' says Harry (with a faintly resigned note that makes Sirius think he was really hoping he could do without the hat). 'If you ever get tired of going out as a dog, could you put on spells like this too?'  
  
'Too many people know what I look like,' says Sirius. 'I'd be in a lot of trouble if they wore off before we got back inside. And Padfoot's a much better disguise anyway-- easier and faster, and even wizards don't expect a dog to secretly be a person.'  
  
Harry pauses thoughtfully. 'Where do your clothes go while you're a dog?'  
  
'Hmm... they sort of stick to me when I change, and anything I've got in my pockets as long as it's not too big or complicated,' Sirius replies (he's found that animagus-related facts like this are easier to remember-- most likely since it's the part of him that's most resistant to the dementors, or simply because he's spent so much time in dog form lately). 'But there's a bit of a trick to it; I didn't get it right on the first try.'  
  
Remus snickers at that. 'Didn't all your seams come undone the first time you changed back? James said your robes just fell right off you like a peeled banana.'  
  
Harry giggles at this mental image, and Sirius raises his eyebrows haughtily. 'Yes, well, James left his _behind_ on his first go, and then panicked and tried to shake them off and got them stuck on his antlers and ran about looking like a particularly noisy coat stand, so _he's_ really one to talk. And--' He breaks off abruptly, thinking about how Peter had (true to form) taken far longer than the rest of them to fully master the change, resulting in dozens of mishaps that had been hilarious at the time but now just make him feel ill...  
  
'Wait, my dad turned into an animal too?' says Harry. 'With... antlers?'  
  
'Yes, he was a stag,' Remus replies, with a glance at Sirius as though he can guess exactly where that train of thought took him. 'We called him Prongs, for the antlers,' he adds for Harry's benefit, and takes his hand. 'We'd best be going, now, before those charms wear off-- they're not the most reliable sort of disguise, and I won't be able to fix them once we're outside because doing magic where muggles might see isn't allowed.'  
  
This distracts Harry well enough, and he asks about the other ways and why Mr Moony didn't use those instead if they're better, and Remus gives brief descriptions of human transfiguration and polyjuice potion (as Sirius turns into a dog and silently follows them outside)-- he explains how these alternatives are a lot more dangerous than cosmetic charms and could have permanent and unwanted side effects if done incorrectly, and a short trip to buy food isn't worth that sort of risk.  
  
Harry glances at Sirius, and then asks how Padfoot can be a dog so easily if regular transforming spells are as complicated and difficult as Mr Moony says, and Remus explains that Padfoot had to do an especially tricky spell so that he can transform any time he likes, and Harry's dad also did the same spell to become Prongs.  
  
'Do you turn into an animal too?' asks Harry, clearly fascinated.  
  
Sirius's ears go back and he shifts closer to Remus, looking quickly up at him-- but Remus doesn't seem bothered by the question. 'That spell doesn't work for me, I'm afraid,' he says mildly, and then he gently reminds Harry that they have to pretend not to know about magic now (as they are approaching the intersection of a busier street where someone might overhear) and there will be plenty of time for further questions once they get home. He suggests that Harry could tell him about their new game with the checkers instead, and Harry launches into an explanation, with Remus asking clever questions about aspects of the new rules they hadn't considered yet. Sirius only half listens, too busy being alert to their surroundings.  
  
The dilapidated streets beyond Remus's flat feel different in the light of day, less sinister-- or perhaps it's just that Sirius is less twitchy for having slept, or the quiet confidence with which Moony leads them through the neighbourhood (Remus doesn't make any particular effort to avoid other people the way Sirius has grown used to doing, but he also gives off an air of belonging, and no one looks twice at them). London was once Sirius's city, its chaotic vibrancy a welcome escape from his parents' rigidly quiet home... but now he can't imagine belonging here or anywhere else, feels as though everything he once knew has come unmoored, drifting off into some murky unknowable future and leaving him caught in liminal space...  
  
But Remus moves with purpose and confidence, and Sirius follows him without hesitation.  
  
Their leisurely route loops through the nearest park, no more than a small rectangle of patchy rubbish-strewn grass and a few stunted trees; they don't linger long (as they don't want to take any chances with Harry's disguise spells and neither Remus nor Sirius have much energy to spare) but even a short detour through this shabby patch of green manages to feel pleasant and refreshing after a full day spent indoors. The smell of Earth is another of the things Sirius once took for granted and then lost to Azkaban; now every breath feels like a rare treasure.  
  
From the park, it's not much farther to a street lined with shops; dogs are, of course, not allowed inside, so Sirius is left to wait in the street while Remus and Harry go in. He doesn't much care for this arrangement, even if he understands the necessity of it; sitting on his own out in the open makes him think of all the ways in which everything could go wrong, and he has to forcibly remind himself that Remus is a very capable wizard and if anything were to happen he's currently far better equipped to keep Harry safe than Sirius is--  
  
But nothing _does_ happen. There are hardly any other people out, and after a very uneventful wait (probably no more than fifteen minutes at most, though it feels like longer) they emerge with bags full of food, which Remus covertly charms feather-light to make them easier to carry back.  
  
As they walk, Harry tells Sirius that Mr Moony let him get _Mars bars_ for dessert and he's only ever had a little taste before (a half-eaten one that Dudley forgot about and it had melted slightly at one point and was a bit squashed as though Dudley sat on it while it was in his pocket) but he had enjoyed it anyway and he's very excited that he gets to have one all his own for the first time. Sirius isn't entirely clear on what Mars bars are (either because he forgot or because he was never particularly well-versed in muggle candy in the first place) and he can't ask on account of being a dog at present, but it doesn't really matter-- it's enough to know that Remus bought Harry something he really wanted. Sirius knows all too well that the smallest gestures count for a lot when you've never received them before.  
  
Sirius turns human once they're back inside, thinking he ought to help put the food away-- only to remember the problem of the Muggle Cold-Box. Unlike the enchanted cold-cupboards found in wizarding households, the muggle equivalent cannot detect and generate ideal temperatures for each individual item (keeping everything perfectly chilled) and therefore is divided into compartments, each with a set level of coldness. Sirius is fairly sure he never quite got the hang of which food items are meant to go into which section of the Cold-Box, and whatever he did manage to work out has thoroughly vacated his mind. It's hard enough to hold onto the important things, let alone small details about muggle kitchen appliances...  
  
He must have stood there longer than he thought, because Moony nudges him aside. 'Go on, Pads, sit-- it'll go faster if we don't have to worry about you trying to freeze the eggs.' Sirius lets himself be pushed into one of the chairs, and looks blankly down at the bar of plain dark chocolate Remus presses into his hands--  
  
'Why does Padfoot want frozen eggs?' says Harry, with a highly concerned glance at Sirius.  
  
'He doesn't do it on purpose,' says Remus, with a fond sort of smile. 'Our Padfoot doesn't really understand how refrigerators work, I'm afraid.'  
  
Harry frowns. 'Do magical people not... normally have refrigerators?' he asks, as though he's trying to work out why Mr Moony has one if they're not common for magical people, or perhaps wondering how they keep their food fresh without.  
  
'There are charms to keep food cold or preserved,' Remus explains. 'But I'd sooner not take any chances with food-spells-- they can make you dreadfully ill if done wrong, and I haven't had much practise with that particular branch of magic.'  
  
'Oh... do they not teach that, at magic school?'  
  
'No-- not officially, anyway,' says Remus, as he puts the milk and orange juice away next to the eggs. 'Culinary spells are typically passed down in families, and neither of ours really... well, my mum was a Muggle, and she was firmly of the opinion that food and magic shouldn't mix.' He glances at Sirius (who still hasn't moved) and then at the chocolate. 'Really, Pads-- have some of that.'  
  
Sirius starts, and blinks, and looks down at his hands as though surprised to find they still belong to him. Slowly, he peels open one corner of the chocolate bar and snaps off a square.  
  
Harry passes Remus two tins of beans, glancing at Sirius as well. 'Er-- I thought we weren't supposed to have chocolate before lunch?'  
  
Remus pauses, looking between them. 'Not normally, but... sometimes chocolate helps people feel better, after they've had all their nice thoughts stolen by those bad creatures I told you about.'  
  
'Oh,' says Harry, looking back at Sirius (who is a little surprised that Remus has already explained the dementor situation to Harry, and also grateful, as he would have had no idea where to begin). '_Do_ you feel better?' asks Harry, a flicker of something achingly like hope in his eyes.  
  
Sirius hesitates-- he wants desperately to give Harry the reassurance he's seeking, but this isn't something he could lie about, even if he wanted to. He folds the corner of the chocolate wrapper over and sets the bar aside, and makes an effort to sit straighter. 'Erm, a little bit. But it works best if you have it right away, and...'  
  
And Sirius is quite sure no one has ever bothered to study the effects of long-term dementor exposure (let alone research possible cures) seeing as people only end up in Azkaban's top-security wing when they've been convicted of the worst sort of crime-- he was meant to suffer until he wasted away. He knows that, perhaps, there is no reversing the damage that was done-- the unsettling gaps in his memory, many things forcibly taken and many others willingly sacrificed in a final desperate effort to preserve some small shred of his own sanity...  
  
Remus meets his eyes, a look heavy with sorrow and uncertainty-- it's clear that he never believed it could be that simple, either. He sets the tins on the shelf and crouches down in front of Harry, and says gently, 'It's just that Padfoot was trapped there for a very long time, so it's going to take more than a simple remedy for him to fully heal.' Remus smiles. 'But he's doing very well already, better than most people would in his position-- he escaped all on his own, which no one else has ever done before.'  
  
Harry turns to Sirius, wide-eyed, and Sirius blinks-- he's never thought of it quite like that, in terms of how far he's come, everything he _has_ managed to accomplish.  
  
'Padfoot is one of the strongest and bravest people I've ever known,' Remus adds quietly, and Sirius thinks this comment is as much for him as it is for Harry.  
  
It also stirs up a lot of emotions that he currently lacks the capacity to deal with, so he shrugs it off and reaches out to ruffle Harry's hair. 'Nah, I was only able to do it because I thought you were in trouble, Prongslet. And I was right, so good on me.'  
  
'Yes, quite.' Remus stands up, smiling at Harry. 'Why don't you and Padfoot play your new game with the checkers, and I'll make us sandwiches for lunch?'  
  
'Only if Padfoot wants to,' says Harry.  
  
Sirius hesitates-- someone who knew Remus Lupin less well might have missed the slight wince as he stood up, but Sirius has had a decade of experience in reading the tiny shifts in Moony's expressions, and not even Azkaban could make him forget. He rolls to his feet as well. 'Mm, later-- I ought to help Moony with the sandwiches.'  
  
'Okay-- I could help too,' Harry offers.  
  
'There's not enough space here,' says Remus, gesturing towards the narrow bit of available counter between the stovetop and the rice cooker.  
  
'So you sit down and I'll make them,' says Sirius.  
  
Remus doesn't budge, and retrieves three plates from the cupboard with the particular sort of mild expression that actually means he's fully prepared to dig his heels in. 'I'd sooner not spend the afternoon cleaning up one of your kitchen disasters, Pads.'  
  
'It's _sandwiches_, Moony, I think I can manage.'  
  
'No. Perhaps another time, when I'm feeling adventurous.' Remus sets bread slices on the plates.  
  
Harry tugs at Sirius's sleeve, with an expression that makes Sirius suspect he's thinking of the frozen eggs again. 'Padfoot, I think we should let Mr Moony make them.'  
  
'I wouldn't put anything weird in,' says Sirius, feeling a little betrayed.  
  
Remus rolls his eyes. 'Pads, you gave me an _exploding_ sandwich once, so forgive me if I don't trust you to have a sensible person's definition of _weird_.'  
  
'Did you really?' says Harry, looking at Sirius curiously.  
  
'That was _one time_,' Sirius protests (or at least he can only remember the one instance, which resulted in Remus fastidiously picking bits of lettuce out of his hair all through History of Magic). 'We were twelve! I've since seen the error of my ways.'  
  
Remus winks at Harry. 'That just means he discovered that there are far messier things to explode. Like puddings. Do not under any circumstances let Padfoot near your puddings.'  
  
'Is making food explode common, for magical people?' asks Harry, glancing at Sirius. 'Aunt Petunia never lets me near her puddings either.'  
  
'Not common, no-- Moony is being very silly.' Sirius sits down (having given up on the sandwich debate, as they're already halfway finished by now) and rolls his eyes. 'As if I'd squander a perfectly good pudding by _exploding_ it.'  
  
'Fair enough,' says Remus dryly. 'You'd _steal_ it though, so the point remains that no pudding is safe with you.'  
  
Sirius tilts his chair back on two legs, his eyebrows raised. 'You make it sound as though I'm some sort of _monster_ who never left you _any_ pudding, which is patently untrue.'  
  
'Only _after_ you'd stuck your face in,' Remus laments. 'Never was I to know the delights of puddings pristine and undefiled...'  
  
'That was a necessary evil,' says Sirius. '_Someone_ had to make sure your food was free of malicious influences.'  
  
Remus snorts. 'The only malicious influence upon my food was _you_, Pads.'  
  
Sirius draws himself up, his chair thunking back to the floor. 'Mr Padfoot would like to remind Mr Moony that a certain Snivellus _repeatedly_ threatened to slip the lot of us dodgy potions,' he says, with the air of one giving a situation report. 'I was _protecting_ you, sacrificing my own flesh to the dastardly whims of slimy unwashed gits so you wouldn't be _poisoned_, and this is the thanks I get! _Shameful_, Moony, I expected better of you.'  
  
Remus casts a glance at him, faintly amused but wholly unimpressed. 'And he wasn't foolish enough to actually try anything-- just as we all _knew_ he wouldn't, because we were in _school_. Attempted murder is taking things a bit far.'  
  
Sirius says nothing, because he knows the others never realised how many near misses there were, how _easy_ it was for a sufficiently determined classmate to slip them something nasty (not _deadly_, of course, but certainly enough to injure or incapacitate). _They_ hadn't grown up around the sort of people who would do it without hesitation-- of course they could never see the threat for what it was. Sirius had given up on convincing them, and therefore never mentioned the spiked chocolates or those eclairs with the filling that made you feel like your skin was full of bugs, or that one memorable occasion when he downed something unidentifiable but truly awful and then spent the night heaving his guts out in the girls' toilets on the second floor (chosen for the fact that no one ever went in there unless they were truly desperate-- he'd used the cubicle farthest from Myrtle's, though this had not stopped her from drifting over and all-too-hopefully inquiring if he thought he might die)... he always made up excuses, let them go on believing it was a joke; he'd come to think it was for the best, because he would've done _anything_ to protect his friends, more than they would ever have accepted had they _known_...  
  
But now he's too tired, can't bring himself to spin it into another joke... and that silence speaks volumes all on its own. Remus glances at him again, this time puzzled and a little concerned, like he's beginning to wonder if he's really been misreading it all this time--  
  
'What's a snivellus?' asks Harry. 'Is that some sort of magical creature?'  
  
Sirius chokes and nearly slips off his chair. Remus (very pointedly avoiding eye contact with him) has that look on his face like he's trying to be Prefectly but is too busy fighting the urge to laugh to quite pull it off. 'No Harry, he's--'  
  
Remus's gaze flicks towards Sirius-- a grave error on his part, as Sirius immediately catches his eye and quirks an eyebrow. Remus swiftly ducks his head, biting his knuckles in an attempt to stifle his laughter.  
  
Thus encouraged, Sirius rolls to his feet and turns to Harry. 'Why, yes, young Master Prongslet,' he says in his poshest Pureblood accent, 'the _Snivellus_ is most commonly found lurking about dungeons and other damp and dreary places, where it lies in wait to lure unsuspecting young mischief-makers into its clammy spindly-fingered clutches--'  
  
'Pads, _please_,' Remus wheezes, clutching the edge of the counter.  
  
'--though a few well-placed hexes should send it scuttling back to its lair.' Sirius can no longer quite keep the grin off his own face as he sneaks a delighted glance at Remus. 'This most unfortunate creature is easily identifiable by its abundant coating of oily secretions, and by its extraordinarily large nasal protuberance.'  
  
Harry looks between Sirius (still manfully refraining from laughter) and Remus (giggling helplessly), trying to work out the source of their amusement. 'What's a prob-- port-- that thing you said?'  
  
'Big nose. Absolutely massive. Beaky.' Sirius pats Harry on the head and sits back down. 'He's a person, actually, not a creature-- just a horrid miserable git of a person.'  
  
'Oh.' Harry frowns. 'And he tried to poison you?'  
  
Sirius's smile slips; he no longer feels like laughing (and Remus has gone very still). He gives a little cough. '...Well, anyway, he was really awful to Moony and your mum-- he wanted to make it so they wouldn't be allowed to use magic anymore.' Sirius runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face; he has no trouble remembering Snape in great detail and hates how easily those memories rise to the surface-- _Snivelly, aged sixteen, greasy nose and foul breath inches from Sirius's face and dark eyes filled with hate as he sneers and utters taunts in that slimy silky-smooth voice, goading him until in a flash of white-hot rage he shoves Snape back and opens his traitorous mouth and tells the odious little twat that if he's so desperate to figure out what's down there he can press this one knot on the Willow's trunk to reveal the tunnel's entrance and_\--  
  
'Why would anyone want to do that?' asks Harry, bewildered. Sirius blinks, trying to pull himself back to the present.  
  
'There are some magical people who think that certain others don't deserve magic,' Remus begins.  
  
'And they're _wrong_,' Sirius cuts in. 'But let's not talk about _him_ anymore, shall we?' he adds, perhaps a bit hastily. 'He's not very nice to think about.'  
  
'Sorry,' says Harry, with a flicker of hesitation.  
  
'No-- no it's fine-- not your fault.' Sirius slides down off his chair, pulling Harry against his chest. 'We're alright.'  
  
Harry hugs him back, and for a moment Sirius manages to keep his mind from shooting off on some erratic tangent-- he's here; they're safe.

* * *

After they've finished eating, Remus gets up to clear the countertop and put the rest of the food away-- as he cleans, he asks if there's anything Harry might like to do on his own while he and Padfoot talk about Important Adult Business that will probably be boring to listen to. Harry hesitates, then looks over at the bookshelves and asks if there are any other interesting books with pictures that he might look at. Remus apologises (making a mental note to find some proper children's books later) and explains that he only has the one illustrated grimoire and most of his books don't have any pictures at all. Harry says that's all right and he doesn't mind looking at the creatures book again, but Remus (wanting to make sure Harry has enough to do, and guessing that Harry is too polite to complain about being bored) fetches out some paper and pencils and suggests that Harry might find it fun to draw some pictures of his own.  
  
Harry has never tried to draw pictures before (the Dursleys, it seems, were not big on creativity and disapproved of artistic hobbies as 'time-wasting nonsense', and beneath that Remus gets the sense that Harry was strongly discouraged from engaging in any sort of activity that would leave a physical trace of his presence) but he agrees that it might be fun to try, and takes the pencils and pad of paper with him when he goes to sit on the couch.  
  
Remus turns back to put the kettle on, aware that Sirius has been trailing around after him since he got up from the table, giving him concerned looks.  
  
'Moony,' he says, quietly, almost like a warning.  
  
'Tea, Pads?' asks Remus, pulling one mug from the cupboard and brushing fingertips against a second.  
  
Sirius ignores this, and instead glares at him and says, 'You need to lie down.'  
  
Remus sighs-- he'd guessed this was coming, especially after a moon as bad as this last one, still too recent for his fresh scars to have healed-- but the inconveniences of the lunar cycle can't be helped. 'We have to decide what to do about the Dursleys,' he says, leaning his hands on the countertop (and trying to ignore the way his healing skin pulls over his ribs). 'You know as well as I do it's been left too long already.'  
  
Sirius scowls, and huffs, and then shoves himself between Remus and the stove. 'Fine. We can talk _while_ you're lying down. Go on; I'll bring your tea.' He says this last as though he means to add that he does remember how to make tea, thank you very much, so stop being so bloody _difficult_ Moony.  
  
Remus considers it, and gives in-- he's too tired to argue, especially since Sirius seems to have found a fresh burst of energy and is channeling all of it into Taking Care Of Remus (just the way he always used to) and Remus knows from years of experience that when Sirius works himself up into this sort of fixation he's all but impossible to talk down. And it seems to benefit Sirius's mental state to have a concrete task to focus on, and Remus supposes there's no logical reason why they can't talk in the bedroom just as well as here. It's wasted energy, he tells himself as he enters his bedroom, and it's worth eating his pride if it helps Sirius.  
  
...And even Sirius at his most insufferable is preferable to being alone. Remus has never liked being taken care of (and Sirius can be especially frustrating about it) but he also knows that he has smiled more in these last couple of days than in the past three and a half years combined, and can't even remember when he last had a proper laugh.  
  
Those years taught him that he is in fact perfectly _capable_ of being self-sufficient, and he knows he could do it again if necessary. It was also absolutely dreadful and he would rather not repeat the experience.  
  
He positions his pillows against the wall and sits against them with his legs stretched out in front of him. It feels nicer than he really wants to admit-- he's used to ignoring all the small bone-deep aches that follow each transformation, the waning moon only reluctantly giving up its hold on him...  
  
Sirius follows a few minutes later, holding two mugs of tea in one hand and one of the kitchen chairs in the other. He plonks the chair down next to the bed, then passes Remus one of the cups.  
  
'Ta, Pads.' Remus sips his tea, and finds it exactly as he likes it-- in fact, it's better than he usually allows himself to make it, stronger and sweeter. 'You put too much sugar in,' he adds (without any real conviction).  
  
'I find that rather difficult to believe,' Sirius says dryly, and sits down, his own mug between his hands. 'Right. Hell-muggles. Much as I was tempted to retroactively earn my murder conviction, I doubt that's in our best interest.'  
  
Remus is reasonably sure that he's being facetious, so he chooses not to comment on the subject of murder convictions, and simply nods. 'We want this done as quietly as possible. Obliviate all witnesses, and... ideally, find some way to reduce the chance of Harry's disappearance being connected to you.'  
  
'No one saw me,' says Sirius. 'Not as a human, anyway... and it's only you and Wormtail who know about Padfoot.'  
  
But this last sounds almost like a question-- there's just the faintest hint of doubt in his tone, a slight uncertainty in the way his gaze flicks towards Remus. It's not that he doesn't trust Remus-- just that he doesn't expect their former loyalty to have held through the sort of unforgivable betrayal he was accused of. Remus can hardly fault him for wondering, though it stings a little to be reminded that they're not what they once were.  
  
'No, I never told anyone,' Remus assures him gently. 'Revealing your animagus form would have implicated all of us, and I just wanted to...' He shakes his head. 'Well, Peter can't have done either, not without spoiling his cover, so Padfoot should be safe. But that's not what I meant-- it's the _timing_ of it. You escape Azkaban, and not a month later Harry Potter goes missing...'  
  
Sirius blinks. 'Oh. Merlin Fuck.' He chews on a fingernail, his expression bleak. 'And they'll have to know I'd come straight to you...'  
  
'No-- I doubt that,' says Remus. 'They all think you were in league with Voldemort, remember-- they most likely expect you to seek out former Death Eater allies, or attempt to make use of your family's assets. There's no reason for them to think you'd come here.' He snorts derisively. '...Well, unless it was to _kill_ me-- finish off the last of your old school friends, since they think you did for James and Peter-- but I can't imagine anyone would be terribly fussed if you did.' Sirius makes a faint outraged noise at this, and Remus rolls his eyes. 'Pads, they didn't even bother to set a proper watch on Privet Drive, and they certainly value Harry's life far above mine.'  
  
'Sodding Ministry,' Sirius grumbles, his eyes stormy, but he at least seems satisfied that they're not in imminent danger of a squad of aurors swooping down on them. He stares into his tea. '...So what now?'  
  
Remus taps a finger against the side of his mug, turning the problem over in his mind before he speaks again. 'We need to establish how many people know he's gone-- if it's still limited to the muggle police at this point, we should be able to cover it up well enough. Modify their memories, vanish all the records.' He sighs. 'But I suspect Dumbledore was keeping watch on Harry, even if the Ministry wasn't-- do you remember Arabella Figg?'  
  
Sirius gives him a blank look. 'Er-- should I?'  
  
Remus shrugs, and gives a brief summary of Figg's participation in the war and her presence in Little Whinging-- he doesn't know for sure to what extent she's involved, but he isn't willing to bet on it being a coincidence and can't imagine any other reason for her to be there except on Dumbledore's orders.  
  
'Bastard,' Sirius mutters. 'So you think he _knew_ what was going on, and just left Harry with those vile trolls anyway...?'  
  
'It's hard to say,' says Remus tiredly. 'I... want to believe Dumbledore meant well, but for the moment I think we'll have to assume the worst. Either way, he wouldn't approve of us taking Harry in-- he made it quite clear that he found it _inadvisable_ for me to see Harry at all, let alone--'  
  
'He _what_?' Sirius jolts upright so abruptly that he sloshes tea over his fingers, though he's apparently too outraged to notice. 'He had _no right_\-- never mind that you should have been the one to look after Harry in the first place-- we're his _family_ for fuck's sake!'  
  
Remus rubs at his forehead. 'Dumbledore told me it was... well, Harry is famous, and he didn't think it would be wise for Harry to be exposed to that.'  
  
'And what-- he didn't trust you to be discreet? You could've pretended to be a Muggle yourself if that was the concern.' In general, Sirius has always been quick to anger and equally quick to get over it, but Remus recognises the tight fury in his stormy eyes, flashing like the edge of a knife-- this is the rarer form of Sirius-anger, the sort where he digs his teeth in and refuses to let go. 'You should have _been_ there,' he growls, his voice low, helpless.  
  
'I know,' says Remus quietly. 'And I... I regret that now. But dwelling on it won't help us, or Harry.'  
  
Sirius hisses a breath out through his teeth. 'Fine.' He looks down at his tea for a few seconds, and dries his hand on his pyjama trousers, then takes a long drink. 'So. Reconnaissance, memory charms, get rid of the evidence.' He pauses again, thoughtfully this time. 'I suppose we'll have to give the Dursleys some sort of false memory for why Harry's gone, or else make them forget they ever had him... but memory charms can be broken, and that won't stop other people from noticing he's gone...'  
  
'Mm, true,' says Remus. 'I was thinking-- if we're not too late to pull it off-- we might make it appear as though they moved away, went abroad and took Harry with them. If we time it right, we might even be able to make it appear as though they left prior to your escape.'  
  
Sirius gnaws on his thumbnail. 'That's not a bad idea, though there's not much window for it-- the _Prophet_ ran a piece with a photo of him.' Sirius sets his tea aside and pulls a very ragged and much-folded sheet of newspaper from the pocket of his pyjamas and offers it to Remus. 'A little over a month before I escaped, by my reckoning.'  
  
Remus accepts it and carefully smooths it out to see-- the boy in the photograph is unmistakably Harry. 'They let you have newspapers?'  
  
Sirius shrugs, and looks as though he would rather not think about it. 'Begged it off some Ministry bloke.'  
  
'It's not the front page, is it? I don't remember seeing this.'  
  
'It was just after the full,' Sirius explains. 'And no, it was a few pages in.'  
  
Remus wonders again how Sirius was able to track the lunar cycle (he can't imagine Azkaban has windows, or clear skies overhead with all the dementors around) but he sets that mystery aside for later, as it's unlikely to be relevant to the matter at hand. 'Well, it's something to keep in mind, but we're getting ahead of ourselves a bit; it may not be plausible at all.'  
  
Sirius nods. 'We'll need another wand,' he says, 'before anything else.'  
  
Remus sighs. 'I know you don't like to be without, but can't that--'  
  
'No-- not for me.' Sirius runs a hand through his hair, long dark strands slipping between his fingers. 'I... I know you're better cut out for this sort of spellwork, and it has to be someone able to blend in and navigate muggle areas, and one of us has to stay here and watch Harry. But you can't use your _own_\-- we can't risk this being traced back to you, either.'  
  
'I can't exactly walk into Diagon and buy a new one,' says Remus, hoping that it doesn't come across too bitter. 'You know I'm on the register-- the purchase of a wand would be flagged, and I'd have to explain to the Ministry what I need a second one for when the first is still in working order.' And he hasn't got the seven galleons to spare, either, but that's beside the point.  
  
Sirius lurches back to his feet, nearly knocking his chair over with the force of it. 'Those _bastards_\-- they said that was a temporary measure!'  
  
'I suppose they did,' Remus replies tightly. 'But we can't do anything about it now-- sit _down_, Pads.'  
  
Sirius doesn't sit. 'It's not _right_,' he snaps, pacing a tight circle around the small room. 'Them treating you like you're some sort of _criminal_ when you've never--'  
  
'We don't have _time_,' Remus cuts in, a touch irritably. 'We can't put this off, and drawing the Ministry's attention like that would be an even bigger risk than me using the wand I've got.'  
  
Sirius growls something unintelligible under his breath, then falls back into his chair and glares at the wall. Remus takes a deep breath and sips his tea-- thinking of the last year of the war, how Sirius grew increasingly bitter and angry, how Remus had spent more and more time away on those covert missions for Dumbledore until it seemed like he hardly saw Sirius at all except at the full moons... They hadn't spoken much, in the end, had kept far too many secrets and left too many unresolved arguments hanging between them-- now, Remus suspects that was where they'd gone wrong.  
  
'...I'll find you one,' says Sirius. 'I'll go tonight after dark.'  
  
Remus doesn't ask what Sirius is planning-- he's not sure he wants to know (and perhaps it's better if he doesn't). But he trusts Sirius-- he has to, knows they can't risk falling apart again. 'Don't be seen,' he says quietly.  
  
'I won't,' says Sirius, with that understated intensity that he has when he sets aside the jokes and the air of idle disinterest and truly devotes himself to whatever he's doing. Raw naked energy, potent as the pull of the moon; Remus does not doubt for a moment that he will do exactly as he promises.  
  
It's a strange contradiction, he thinks-- that Sirius, who is at times the most ridiculous and unsubtle person Remus has ever known, can switch it off without any apparent effort and go silent as a ghost (James might have been the one with the invisibility cloak but it was Sirius who had mastered the art of walking silently, Sirius who didn't need to be invisible to go wandering the corridors at night without getting caught, Sirius whom they had only half-jokingly nicknamed after the spectral _Padfoot_). It's a side to him that Remus suspects few people have ever seen-- the man who could escape an impenetrable fortress in the middle of the sea, who could take Harry from the Muggles and bring the three of them back together and somehow not get caught in the act. Sirius Black, who seems to live and breathe magic, unstoppable, _beautiful_...  
  
Sirius watches him, eyes like bright silver-- he lifts his head slightly when he notices Remus watching him back. 'Moooony,' he says softly, 'you've gone all moony.'  
  
Remus snorts. 'What does that mean? I thought I was always Moony to you.'  
  
'Yeah, well you've gone moonier than usual. All thinky, with the moony-face.' Sirius raises his eyebrows. 'You do that sometimes.'  
  
'Hm. Do I?'  
  
'I remember,' he says, vaguely. He tilts his head, studying Remus's face. 'What were you thinking?'  
  
'Dunno.' Remus lifts his mug and slowly sips from it. He's not sure how to put it into words, not sure if he should even try. He sits straighter (his body protests the movement, but this time he hardly notices the aches) and smiles faintly at Sirius. 'I think it's a good plan. To start with, at least.'  
  
'You always have the best plans,' says Sirius-- he stretches, leans over languidly to pick up his half-forgotten tea, the motion graceful in spite of the too-sharp angles of his limbs.  
  
Remus thinks about reaching out to touch Sirius's wrist, sticking out from the rolled-up cuff of the borrowed jumper-- those sleeves were too long even on Remus; on Sirius's skeletal frame it makes him think of bird bones, slender and feather-light and far too fragile. He doesn't move, doesn't cross the distance between them; he murmurs something vaguely agreeable, and they both sip their tea in companionable silence.

  
The rest of the day seems to pass quickly-- Remus enchants a couple of (technically illegal) portkeys in case they need to make a quick escape with Harry, and doubles the wards and sets proximity alarms to notify them of any approaching wizards other than the two of them. Sirius follows him around, brushing fingertips over the walls-- he can't help with the casting without a wand, but he can sense the delicate weave of spellwork and makes occasional suggestions.  
  
Once satisfied with the spells, they all sit on the couch and Harry shows them his pictures, which include two attempts at drawing Padfoot and quite a lot of snakes-- Remus asks if Harry likes snakes (hoping that this will discourage Sirius from declaring his own feelings on the matter) and Harry shrugs and explains that they're much easier to draw than dogs because they're 'long and squiggly and have no legs'. Harry asks if either of them ever draw pictures, and Sirius promptly answers that Remus is 'quite good' (before Remus can object) so he finds one of his notebooks with some sketches in it.  
  
Most of these are diagrams of plants known to have magical properties, done several months ago for a book on the subject (herbology is not his primary field of study, but he's decent enough at it, and the schedule for this sort of freelance work is flexible enough to accommodate the lunar cycle). Remus is quite sure that Harry will find the illustrations dull, but he doesn't seem to mind the spontaneous herbology lesson-- and even Sirius (who never had any patience for revising back in school) sits quietly and listens, watching Remus intently as he identifies each of the plants.  
  
They make spaghetti for dinner that night, with marinara sauce from a jar (a poor substitute for homemade, but it's at least passable, and none of them are inclined to be picky). Sirius, in his ongoing vendetta against table manners, teaches Harry to slurp his noodles-- the pair of them are enjoying themselves far too much for Remus to tell them off properly, though he does send them to the washroom to clean the streaks of sauce off their faces before he'll let them near his books again.  
  
After they've finished the washing-up, Remus reads from the grimoire, this time going through the chapter on dragons; Sirius gets up halfway through the descriptions of different dragon breeds and goes to change into the clothes Remus found for him to wear on his wand excursion-- a pair of old jeans charmed from their original faded denim blue to a dark grey, a plain t-shirt, a hooded jacket and a scarf to cover his face. He pauses to wish Harry good night, nods to Remus, and then slips out into the dark. When asked, Remus explains to Harry that Padfoot is looking for something and he'll be back before morning; he goes back to the book and tries to lose himself to the words (tries not to let himself think of other times Sirius walked off into the night, many times when he came back with something in his eyes like he'd lost pieces of himself to the unending war, and the one time he didn't come back at all, lost to betrayals and dementors and the questions no one ever bothered to ask).  
  
Harry starts to nod off halfway through the segment on Romanian Longhorns, and Remus sets the book aside and pulls the blankets up over him; with little else to do but wait for Sirius to return (and aware that he ought to conserve his energy for the tasks ahead) Remus goes to lie down in his own bed, though he doesn't expect he'll be able to sleep, not while he's worrying about Sirius, somewhere out in the night...  
  
  
_He waits in the dark, paces through dusty broken rooms; the floorboards creak under his weight and he hates the way they feel under the pads of his feet. He was meant for deep forests, broad fields, cold night air across his face and wind rippling through his thick fur; he should be running wild and free beneath the stars with the Moon singing in his veins._  
  
_ They are late; they should be here. He growls, snaps, scratches and howls at one of the boarded-up windows. He hates this prison, this box of dead wood; the others should be here by now--_  
  
_ Voices, voices beneath the floor, voices underground. Loud, bickering. Human. He can't quite track what they're saying, won't remember later even if he could._  
  
_ Blood, he smells blood and sweat and fear. He is a hunter; they are loud and slow and soft; they are prey. He is a hunter but it's something darker than hunger that drives him on, down to the bottom floor, to the trapdoor. He scratches at the floorboards-- they're close now, so close-- he gets claws and teeth under the trapdoor's warped edges and wrestles it open, squeezes himself down into the tunnel--_  
  
_ He can see them, wands bright in the dark. He can smell them; he tastes their fear on the air. Then they shout, different words this time; one wand flashes angry red and he scrambles back, growling, as the tunnel ceiling crumbles and falls in; he's trapped and can't reach, claws gouging at the earth as he snarls and snaps and howls and tears at the earth, tears at himself--_  
  
_ Remus jolts awake in the infirmary, feels as though his entire body has been wrung out; he's been torn apart and clumsily patched back together like Frankenstein's Monster, made of pieces not his own, unnatural and freakish, revolting and inhuman; his stomach churns and his limbs are filled with needles. It's the worst he's felt after a Wolf Night in a long time._  
  
_ He shifts onto his side (has to bite back a pained whimper) so he can reach for the basin Madam Pomfrey always leaves at his bedside-- and he notices that the bed immediately next to his is occupied (which is highly unusual, unprecedented); he sees the shaggy raven hair strewn like spilt ink across the pillowcase, clean white bandages, the smell of dried blood and stale sweat and old sick; he lies facing the wall, back and shoulders far too stiff to be asleep..._  
  
_ As always, Remus remembers only a vague jumble of sensations from the night before-- fresh blood, fear, indistinct shouting-- remembers being horribly achingly alone, alone in his little wooden prison, alone and screaming and tearing at the walls and the earth-- fear, bloodlust, despair. He remembers human screams and blood in his teeth, and--_  
  
_ 'Pads?' he croaks, tastes the bile rising at the back of his own throat, no nonono not this not him--_  
  
_ Sirius jolts upright like he's been burnt, falls out of his bed in his haste to reach Remus's side, crawls across the floor as Remus retches helplessly into the basin-- Sirius's eyes are puffy red and his skin ashen and clammy and he whispers Moony Moony I'm so sorry I cocked it all up and I'm sorry I'm so sorry it was all my fault he found out he knows and I didn't mean to but I did and I'm sorry--_  
  
  
Remus must have drifted off after all, because he wakes with a start-- he grabs his wand and sits up, immediately alert and on edge thanks to the odd sixth sense he's always attributed to the wolfish part of him-- and half a second later, he hears the outer door bang open, immediately followed by muffled swearing in what's unmistakably Sirius's voice.  
  
The swearing cuts off just as abruptly as Remus heads out into the hall-- he can hear Sirius speaking in a much quieter tone, assuring Harry that everything is fine.  
  
'Expelliarmus,' says Remus from the shadows of the hall, and Sirius whirls to face him with a wild look in his eyes as an unfamiliar wand flies from his grasp-- Remus freezes up as though _he_ were the one hit by an unexpected spell (Sirius's alarmed look hitting him like a punch to the gut, knocking the breath out of him) and he misses the catch, the new wand clattering to the floor just behind him.  
  
'Sorry, Pads,' he manages as he forces his limbs back into motion, stoops to pick it up-- he feels bad for startling Sirius, but he knows the wand is much more likely to favour him if he has 'won' it fairly, and the memory charms he'll probably have to perform with it are such delicate and fiddly things...  
  
Sirius doesn't reply, and he's still standing stiffly when Remus glances up again-- he looks worse than merely startled, his expression tight with pain, and that's when Remus realises he can smell fresh blood.  
  
Remus shoves the new wand into his pocket and stands slowly, taking a careful step towards Sirius-- he's got the scarf wrapped around his right hand, presumably to stop the bleeding. But he catches Remus's eye and gives his head an almost imperceptible shake, shooting a brief glance towards the couch.  
  
Remus nods back towards the hall with a pointed look, stepping aside to give Sirius space to pass behind him. Harry watches them uncertainly, and Remus gives him a tired smile. 'Everything's fine, Harry-- we didn't mean to wake you.'  
  
'Are you sure Padfoot's alright?' asks Harry quietly.  
  
'Yes-- I promise.'  
  
Harry still seems a little concerned, but he settles back down. 'Okay. Good night, Moony.'  
  
'Night Harry,' he says, and follows Sirius into the washroom-- he casts a quick _muffliato_ as he closes the door, which turns out to have been an excellent idea, as Sirius lets out another explosive burst of swearing as soon as the latch clicks. Remus gives him a moment to catch his breath, keeping a steady grip on his shoulder, before reaching for his injured hand. 'What happened?'  
  
'Fucking splinched,' Sirius croaks. 'Was going fine til I-- bloody _apparition_, I _knew_ it was a shit awful idea but I just-- I wanted to get back quickly and I--'  
  
'Don't worry about that now,' Remus says gently. 'How bad is it?'  
  
'Couple fingernails,' Sirius answers, hissing as Remus peels back the scarf. 'Circe's _tits_, that smarts...'  
  
In better times, Remus might have rolled his eyes (trust Sirius Black to get all dramatic over some missing fingernails) but that sort of teasing feels a little too mean-spirited under the circumstances... and in all fairness, the injury _does_ look rather painful. 'Episkey,' Remus murmurs, which takes care of the bleeding at least-- he's fairly sure there's a charm that would grow them back right away, but it's one he never had cause to learn...  
  
Up close, Remus can't help but notice that Sirius's intact fingernails aren't in the best shape either-- they're ragged and cracked and gnawed painfully short. Sirius was always a bit fidgety, prone to chewing things while deep in thought, but Remus can't remember his nails ever looking this bad before, thinks maybe he was once a lot better at covering up the evidence--  
  
'If you're trying to read my fortune, Moony, it's called _palmistry_ for a reason,' Sirius drawls.  
  
Remus jumps and lets go-- Sirius has evidently regained his composure enough to make stupid jokes, and also notice how long Remus was staring at his hand. 'You know I never bothered with Divination,' he says with a weak smile, hoping it comes across less awkward than it feels.  
  
'As you shouldn't. Bloody useless business, trying to tell the future.' Sirius looks down at his missing nails, a bit morosely. 'Wouldn't have helped me anyway-- should have known better, apparating on a strange wand, yet here I am, sans fingernails...'  
  
'On the bright side, you didn't lose any important bits-- fingernails grow back.'  
  
Sirius winces. 'Urgh, let's _not_ talk about splinched bits-- I mean, can you _imagine_ the accidental magic reversal people showing up, and then you have to explain what you're missing and drop your pants so they can reattach--'  
  
'Anyway!!' says Remus loudly, turning back to the medicine cabinet (while silently cursing Sirius's tendency to respond to this sort of topic by sharing his horrible mental images in the most graphic terms possible). 'We should get some murtlap essence on those, before...'  
  
Sirius puts his arms around Remus from behind. 'Nahh, don't worry. I'll get it later.'  
  
Remus has to remind himself to breathe-- Sirius is too light, too thin, but his embrace is surprisingly strong. Remus swats him gently on the nose. 'Off.'  
  
Sirius squeezes once, then releases him, leaning against the wall. 'So you've got the wand,' he begins (as though he's asking _what next_).  
  
Remus draws it out again-- it's thicker and perhaps an inch shorter than his own, made of a very pale wood. The feel of it isn't quite natural, but it sparks halfheartedly when he gives it a wave. 'This should work-- er, thanks. For finding it.' Again, he tries not to think about exactly where it came from. 'No one saw you?'  
  
'Moony, please, have a little faith-- aren't I the sneakiest person you know? Expert Stealth Operative of the Merry Marauders, Most Skilled Discoverer of Secret Passages and Intrepid Explorer of the Untold Mysteries Within...'  
  
'You also had the most _detentions_ of everyone I know,' says Remus, 'from all the times you were not sufficiently sneaky.'  
  
'We do not speak of past time--' His expression goes abruptly from facetious to haunted. '--served,' he finishes, barely above a whisper.  
  
Remus pockets the wand again, and (before he can let himself second-guess it) he pulls Sirius against his chest and holds him securely. Sirius returns the embrace, taking deep measured breaths, while Remus rubs slow circles across his back (the smell of him is just as Remus remembers, beneath the sharp metallic blood-scent that still lingers in the air-- a bit like dog fur, stormy winds and something faintly electric, that particular warmish smell unique to him).  
  
'Are you sure you'll be okay?' asks Remus, a moment later. 'Staying with Harry while I...'  
  
Sirius huffs out a breath, and Remus can sense he's rolling his eyes even with his face smushed against Remus's shoulder. 'Course-- that's the easy part, innit? Keep an eye on the kid, don't explode anything... think I can manage well enough.'  
  
'I could lend you my wand,' Remus begins, but Sirius shakes his head.  
  
'We've got the wards, and the emergency portkey-- you're more likely to run into trouble, and...' He grimaces, dropping his arms and stepping back. 'Better not risk apparating on a strange wand.'  
  
Remus winces at that. 'Fair enough.'  
  
Sirius gives him a faint smile. 'Wouldn't want to splinch your bits...'  
  
Remus shoves him gently. 'Sod off.'  
  
Sirius sighs and pushes his hair back from his face. '...You sure _you're_ up for all this?' he asks softly.  
  
'I have to be, don't I?' says Remus. 'This is too important to leave up to chance...' He smiles wryly. 'And you know perfectly well that I've pushed through worse days for a lot less.'  
  
Sirius makes no effort to return the smile-- he leans against the edge of the sink, his shoulders tense. 'Sorry I... dumped all this on you. It's not fair that you--'  
  
'Oh, stuff it, Pads.' Remus grabs him by a bony wrist, gives his uninjured hand a firm squeeze. 'Look-- you did the right thing. I _won't_ have you thinking that coming here was a mistake.' He turns Sirius's hand over in his own, massaging slow circles into his palm. 'I'm helping because I want to-- this is important to me, too.'  
  
Sirius won't quite meet his eyes. 'Just... don't overdo it, Remus. Don't...' He sighs. 'We need you in one piece, alright?'  
  
Remus snorts. 'You know werewolves don't break easily.'  
  
'You're still _human_,' says Sirius, very quietly.  
  
Remus knows Sirius is referring to human limitations-- but it always throws him off, how easily Sirius can say that sort of thing when so many would disagree. Human. Remus was so young when he received the bite that he has no recollection of being properly human, of a time without the Wolf under his skin. And yet...  
  
'...I suppose I should get started, then,' he hears himself saying.  
  
'It's still the middle of the night,' Sirius objects, scowling. 'You need--'  
  
'I slept while you were out,' says Remus mildly. 'And you always used to insist it was The Marauder Way, that we do our best work after dark-- this will go easier if I reach the Dursleys before they wake up. It's a thursday; I would assume they work during the day.'  
  
Sirius blinks, and sighs. 'Fair point. The husband does, anyway; Petunia stays home with Cousin Piggy.' Remus snorts and raises an eyebrow at this, and Sirius shrugs, plainly not sorry. 'Harry says he looks like a pig in a wig, and I must say the description suits him.'  
  
Remus tries not to smile (he really shouldn't encourage that sort of thing) but he's not sure he's successful. 'Try not to get up to too much mischief while I'm gone,' he says, turning towards the door. 'I like having my furniture intact.'  
  
Sirius catches his wrist as he reaches for the knob, expression tight and drawn-- 'Wait,' he says quietly, and looks around the room as though he's concerned some invisible (and scentless) person might overhear-- and then he leans in close and murmurs a handful of spells, describing their effects without quite meeting Remus's eyes.  
  
And it's clear why: they belong to a category of magic that Remus has never used before, and which they certainly never studied at Hogwarts-- spells for altering and erasing memories that are more powerful than _obliviate_ and more delicate and targeted than _confundus_, spells to coax truths out or extract them by force. Remus doesn't ask where Sirius learnt that sort of magic (he can guess well enough) and just nods grimly-- both of them hoping it won't be necessary yet fully prepared for that eventuality.  
  
Remus hates the thought of doing anything that might harm other people (even if they've wronged him, even when they're as horrible as the Dursleys); it feels too much like letting the Wolf win. But he understands that it's up to them to keep Harry safe, and he'll do whatever it takes to ensure Harry will remain in their care-- because Sirius is right; they _are_ his family, and Lily would never have trusted her sister with Harry, even as a last resort.  
  
He quietly leaves his flat and locks the door, and walks two blocks to the nearest apparition point, and vanishes with a faint pop.

* * *

When Harry wakes that morning, Padfoot promptly sits up at the far end of the couch next to Harry's feet, and when Harry gives him a very sleepy _good morning_ he turns back into a person and tells Harry that Moony already left to take care of Important Business, so it's just the two of them until he gets back. Harry wonders out loud what they'll do all day, and Padfoot gives him a blank look and then suggests they start with breakfast.  
  
'We've got eggs now,' he says. 'I think I can manage eggs without burning them... or there's cornflakes, if you like.'  
  
'Let's do cornflakes,' says Harry. He doesn't add that he would have preferred eggs, but Padfoot's comment about burning things isn't very reassuring, and Harry would sooner have cereal than burnt eggs-- he'd had to eat burnt eggs on one memorable occasion with the Dursleys, because Aunt Petunia hadn't wanted to 'waste food' and had seemed convinced that it was Harry's fault the eggs had burnt, and he's not eager to repeat the experience.  
  
Padfoot nods and rolls to his feet, and Harry follows him, thinking that Padfoot isn't the sort of person who would force him to eat anything nasty and burnt-- but he decides that it's best to play it safe anyway. Burnt eggs smell very bad, after all, and even if he didn't have to eat them he and Padfoot would still have to spend all day in a flat that smells of burnt eggs, and Harry would really rather not do that either.  
  
So Harry sits at the table and Padfoot pulls out bowls and spoons for each of them (because he did promise Mr Moony that he'd try to be better about manners, after all-- or perhaps it's just that cereal would be terribly messy to try and eat with their hands) and then sets the box of cereal and the bottles of milk and orange juice beside the bowls, and asks if Harry wants to pour his own. Harry says yes (because he's used to doing things for himself and would feel a bit awkward just sitting there while Padfoot serves him) and fills up his bowl-- a little bit past the point where Aunt Petunia would have snapped at him for taking 'more than his share', but Padfoot obviously doesn't mind, barely glancing at Harry's portion as he reaches for the box.  
  
To Harry's great astonishment, Padfoot pours orange juice on his cornflakes instead of milk. This is made even more startling by the fact that he quite plainly did so on purpose. Padfoot puts the milk and juice away again and then turns his chair around backwards before sitting down to eat his breakfast. After a moment, Harry asks if juice on cereal is a common thing for magical people, and Padfoot shrugs and says _no not really_, and puts a large spoonful of orange-flavoured cornflakes into his mouth as though this is completely normal.  
  
The Dursleys probably would have been appalled, because the Dursleys hate when anyone does something the least bit different or unexpected. Harry says so, and then adds that anything the Dursleys hate is fine with him (even if he'll probably stick with milk for his own cereal) and Padfoot gives him an odd thoughtful look over his bowl.  
  
'That's sort of why I tried it in the first place, you know,' he says eventually. 'Well, not your Dursleys _specifically_, but... people like them. People who think there's only one right way of doing anything.'  
  
'So you put orange juice in your cornflakes _just_ to be different?' Harry knows how wearying it can be, trying to fit in with people like the Dursleys and all of their seemingly-nonsensical rules (especially since there's always some new bit you've never heard of before that you only learn about after you've already messed up) but he thinks that going out of your way to be different all the time sounds every bit as tiresome.  
  
Padfoot snorts, and seems to pick up on what Harry's getting at just from his tone. 'I put orange juice in because I like it-- but I'd never have known I liked it if I hadn't tried the first time.' His mouth quirks into a faint smile. 'Pumpkin juice is even better, but that's not really a Thing for muggles.'  
  
Harry didn't even know you could make juice from pumpkins, and wonders what it even tastes like (Padfoot gives him a blank look and a shrug and answers _like pumpkin_, which is not the least bit helpful) but then the subject also reminds Harry of how Padfoot said he'd never had much in the way of 'muggle candy' (implying that there's such a thing as _magical_ candy) and he's very curious about what sorts of foods magical people eat and how they're different from regular food.  
  
When prompted, Padfoot says that there's a chain of magical candy-shops called Honeydukes that carry all sorts of things Harry has never heard of before (in addition to common items like plain chocolate bars and fudge); Padfoot tells him about every-flavour beans (which have all sorts of nasty flavours in addition to the nice ones), and sugar quills and pepper imps and fizzing whizbees, and the 'specialty' items like blood-flavoured lollies and cockroach clusters (both of which Padfoot has tried as a result of dares and lost bets; he describes the cockroaches as 'crunchy' and 'surprisingly decent if you're not weird about eating bugs', and says the blood lollies taste 'exactly as you'd expect' and are 'for vampires, probably'). Padfoot suggests that maybe they can talk Moony into picking up some treats from Honeydukes for them, and Harry can see how they compare to Mars bars. Harry says he would like that, though he does wish that they could all go together. Padfoot looks very sad at that, and says he wishes they could too, more than anything-- which Harry is fairly sure has little to do with the candy shop and is really about the whole situation, Harry's parents being gone and everyone thinking Padfoot has done awful things...  
  
While living with the Dursleys, Harry had learnt the hard way that some topics are simply Forbidden (Harry's parents being at the top of this list, as well as any mention of magic or things that could be perceived as such) and since speaking of Forbidden Topics resulted in long stretches locked in his cupboard, Harry got into the habit of carefully avoiding them. Harry pays attention with Padfoot, too-- not because he might get in trouble (he knows by now that Padfoot won't be angry with him if he says the wrong thing) but Harry has noticed that Padfoot will sometimes trip up over certain topics, going distant and silent, and Harry doesn't want to make Padfoot sad even if it's an accident.  
  
Harry asks what other interesting foods Padfoot has tried (since the subject of food seems relatively safe) and this carries them through the end of breakfast-- Harry has never had the luxury of being a picky eater and is used to accepting whatever he's been given even if he's not particularly fond of it (Dudley was often finicky and had to have everything exactly as he liked it, but Harry knew that if _he_ ever tried to complain he'd get nothing at all). For Padfoot, though, it's clearly more than a matter of survival-- he seems to genuinely enjoy trying strange new things, especially when other people around him claim that they're 'weird' or 'gross' (which, Padfoot explains to Harry, usually just means _unfamiliar_, and Padfoot thinks this is a silly reason not to try something). Padfoot has eaten octopus and brains and snails and bugs, tiny peppers that make your mouth burn and hot mustard that feels a bit like being punched in the nose, and he can't think of any food he truly disliked enough that he wouldn't have it again, even if it's not a favourite.  
  
Curious, Harry asks which _are_ his favourites, and Padfoot thinks for a moment and says _curry, probably_\-- and then he goes a bit wistful and says Harry's grandmother made the best naan and Padfoot liked the crispy almost-burnt bits most of all, and samosas with potato and lamb and green onion, and the candied fennel seeds she'd send as a special treat which Harry's dad was a bit self conscious about but which Padfoot loved and when Mrs Potter had learnt of this (and that Padfoot's parents never sent him anything) she would send him little packages of his own. Mrs Potter was very kind, says Padfoot quietly.  
  
Harry has thought about his own parents a lot, but somehow it never occurred to him to wonder about grandparents-- he knows that Aunt Petunia's (and his mum's) parents died years before either Harry or Dudley were born, and while Uncle Vernon's are alive Harry has never met them (he vaguely recalls that they had retired to someplace tropical before Harry came to live with the Dursleys, who of course had no desire to spend the extra money bringing Harry on holiday with them, and Aunt Marge was the only Dursley relative to ever visit Privet Drive) so Harry's only experience with grandparents is through the expensive gifts everyone except him would receive on birthdays and christmases. He knows that his Potter grandparents must be dead too (the Dursleys always complained about getting stuck with him and told him he ought to be more grateful because there was no one else to take him) and wishes he might have known them; even just based on the handful of things Padfoot has told him, Harry thinks they must have been very pleasant and kind.  
  
But Padfoot has gone all distant and sad, and doesn't seem in the mood to talk more; they put their dishes in the sink and Harry sits back down at the table, and thinks that it's very strange to have a whole day all to himself like this, and he's at a bit of a loss for what they're supposed to do until Mr Moony gets back.  
  
While he was living with the Dursleys on Privet Drive, Harry would help Aunt Petunia with simple chores whenever she needed another pair of hands (usually tidying up around the house, or pulling weeds in the front or back gardens) and when he wasn't working he was expected to stay in his cupboard, or at least out of sight. He'd spent many long hours lying in the dark, trying to remember what his parents were like or just imagining going on fantastical Dursley-free adventures... but that feels odd now that he really _is_ free of the Dursleys, and Mr Moony isn't around to suggest activities to fill the time, and Padfoot seems to have even less of an idea of what they should do than Harry does.  
  
After several minutes of thoughtful silence (in which Padfoot sits statue-still and stares fixedly at a blank patch of wall) Harry says that he thinks he will draw some more pictures-- and when Padfoot twitches and blinks as though he forgot Harry was there (or perhaps like he's the one who isn't entirely present), Harry adds that he won't mind if Padfoot needs to be a dog for a while. After all, Padfoot is very nice company whichever shape he's in, and Harry wants him to feel better.  
  
Padfoot looks very grateful for this, and when Harry lies down on the rug with his pad of paper, the large black dog curls up at his side.

* * *

By the time Remus has finished with the Dursleys, he considers it a miracle of restraint that he managed _not_ to cause some form of accidental magical calamity within Number Four-- the Dursleys are, without a doubt, some of the most unpleasant people he has ever had the misfortune to meet (even under the magically-induced trances he'd put them into for questioning) and the cold fury shivers wolflike beneath his carefully constructed calm.  
  
He understands Sirius's desperation, the righteous fury, the refusal to back down. And he hates it, hates that Harry should ever have been subjected to those people, that any of this should have been necessary.  
  
Fortunately, Remus has had two decades of experience in controlling his temper (werewolves cannot afford to get angry, after all) and he was able to accomplish what he came for without setting fire to the drapes or shattering all of the windows in the house-- after taking careful notes on everything the Dursleys told him, Remus carefully and thoroughly modified their memories and instilled in them an overpowering desire to live abroad, and then he left the house.  
  
He had looked inside the cupboard under the stairs on his way out, and now he cannot stop thinking of Harry trapped inside that narrow dark space for hours at a time.  
  
It's maddening, that this should have been allowed to happen-- that no one was watching. Maddening, and _terrifying_, when Remus thinks of the possibility Sirius had brought up, that anyone might have been able to find the house had they put in the least bit of effort (it had taken Sirius a couple of weeks at most, even fresh out of Azkaban, and Remus had easily located the house on only Sirius's vague description and several-day-old scents) and there were no wards or alarm-spells to stop them approaching (the Marauders had all become experts in detecting location-based defensive magic while exploring and mapping Hogwarts; Remus is quite confident that he would have been able to detect them if they were present). Only Arabella Figg was there to check in on Harry with any frequency, and (as Remus discovered upon questioning her) she only saw him occasionally, and was powerless to help when she saw he was unhappy (she had meant well, and hadn't known the full extent of the Dursleys' abuse, so Remus feels a little bit bad about the memory spells-- but it's necessary, and he performs them without hesitation).  
  
Remus leaves Arabella Figg's house on Wisteria Walk, and spends the next several hours following up on other leads-- there's the hospital where Dudley's arm was treated, and the police officers whom Vernon shouted at over the telephone and who later took statements concerning the incident, and then all of the coworkers to whom those people might have mentioned important details and the reports they have filed for their records-- Remus modifies memories and vanishes bits of paperwork, all while bluffing his way through areas he definitely should not have been able to get into (being neither hospital staff nor law enforcement). Remus once again counts himself very fortunate that he grew up with a muggle mother who taught him to navigate the nonmagical world, as he cannot imagine he would get even half as far without a lot of past experience.  
  
It would have been exhausting work under the best of circumstances, and it's only the third day since the full (still too soon for his injuries to have healed completely, even with Sirius's ministrations and his accelerated werewolf-healing) and there's the emotional strain as well as the physical-- the reality of Harry's living situation has left him sick with guilt and shame, and Remus has a deep dislike of hospitals (both magical and muggle) so as the hours drag on he begins to feel as though he's stuck in a bland sanitised sort of purgatory, its chemical cleaners unable to entirely cover up the lingering reek of illness and death.  
  
Still, he forces himself to keep at it (this is too important to put off after all, and the more he does now the less there will be tomorrow) and only lets himself leave when he's hit the point where he can hardly stay upright. Not trusting himself to apparate, he heads to the nearest train station and confunds the muggle at the ticket window into giving him a free ticket (because he hasn't the money to buy one, and this day has already been so rife with illegal magic that he cannot bring himself to be bothered) and in this way he makes the trip back to London, and then onto the Underground (courtesy of another well-placed _confundus_).  
  
The sky is fully dark by the time he leaves the tube station nearest his flat, the waning gibbous glowing through the city's haze-- he lives in London out of necessity (for its near-endless supply of crap dead-end jobs he hasn't yet been sacked from) but Remus grew up in the remote Welsh countryside and sometimes he desperately misses being able to see the stars on clear nights, the cool fresh smell of rain sweeping over the rugged rocky hills...  
  
He makes it down the stair without falling over his own feet and stumbles through the door, and in a flash Sirius is there, placing steadying hands on his shoulders and making faint concerned noises at him.  
  
'Pads, it's fine,' he mumbles (with a feeble and ultimately unsuccessful attempt at shrugging Sirius off). 'I'm not hurt, just tired.'  
  
Sirius steers him over into a chair anyway, puts the kettle on and sets a bowl in front of him-- he's hardly eaten anything since he left before dawn that morning (just the sandwich he'd brought in his coat pocket) so he probably needs it, but his body can't seem to decide whether to be queasy or ravenous (a feeling he's well acquainted with from two decades of post-full-moon mornings). Left to his own devices, he probably would have skipped the solid food entirely and just had tea and perhaps a dose of sleeping draught, but Sirius is watching him pointedly so he manages a weak smile and picks up the fork.  
  
He knows that he should be filling Sirius in on the parts he's taken care of and new information acquired, but all he can think of is that dark little cupboard and the way the Dursleys sneered and talked about Harry like he was a burden and a freak, something nasty and subhuman (and he thinks of the long sequence of healers who always spoke of him as though he wasn't there and cringed from touching him, the number of times his parents would take him tightly by the hand and hurry him out of the room and tell him it was _their_ problem and not his but that never made it easier to bear).  
  
The nausea doesn't go away; Remus feels like he's trying to eat glue.  
  
Sirius sets out mugs and teabags, squints impatiently at the kettle, then comes to stand just behind Remus, putting hands on his shoulders, thumbs moving in small tentative circles. 'Moony,' he says, and it's like he's saying _what's wrong, talk to me_.  
  
Remus forces down one more mouthful, then gives up and leaves the fork in the still-mostly-full bowl, takes a deep breath. 'I should've looked in on him sooner,' he says quietly, bitterly. 'I... truly never imagined...'  
  
Sirius crouches down next to him, takes his hand, looks up at him with eyes soft and sad. 'Of course you didn't,' he says quietly, gently. 'This isn't on you, Remus.'  
  
He can feel the anger like the swell of the tides, boiling up from somewhere beneath the exhaustion. 'D'you know what he told me?' he bites out. '_Harry is safe_. In that _way_ of his, like he knows everything and has your best interests at heart-- he swore to me that Harry would be safe, and I just-- I took him at his bloody word and _walked away_.' Remus presses his free hand over his eyes. 'Harry was... I was all he had left. If you hadn't escaped and brought him here...'  
  
'You can't have known,' Sirius murmurs, massaging slow circles into the palm of Remus's hand. 'We both cocked up and trusted the wrong people-- so of course you thought Harry would be safer with the muggles than with you.' He sighs, and grimaces. 'And I could hardly blame you for that-- I very nearly convinced myself of the same, even _after_ seeing what they were like.'  
  
Remus lifts his head, eyebrows disappearing into his fringe. 'Did you really?'  
  
Sirius snorts. 'I thought at least he'd have... well, a roof over his head, for one. I had no home of my own to offer him, no resources, only the prospect of a life on the run... the life of an escaped convict.' His eyes go distant, desolate, like cold barren stone and iron-grey seas. 'I knew that would be hell for a kid to go through, and I was... honestly, I was terrified I'd be even worse. I didn't exactly have good role models growing up-- I don't know the first thing about being a decent parent.'  
  
'You had the Potters,' says Remus gently. 'And you were always wonderful with Harry, right from the start.'  
  
Sirius glances up at him, hesitates. 'It's... still difficult for me to remember any of that,' he admits quietly.  
  
'I had wondered,' Remus murmurs, and squeezes his fingers. 'But you still got him out.'  
  
'I couldn't leave him behind, when it came down to it-- because they _were_ that awful.' He sits straighter. 'But what I meant to say is, maybe Dumbledore was counting on that-- that you'd accept Harry was better off there and stay away.' Sirius shakes his head. 'We can't know _why_ he wanted Harry with them, but--'  
  
Remus sits straighter at that-- 'I might, actually,' he says, and digs the little notepad out of his pocket with his free hand. 'Dumbledore left a letter for Petunia-- when I questioned her, she mentioned that it was the only reason they kept Harry at all.'  
  
Sirius's eyes snap up, intense and stormy, and his hands go still, fingers tight around Remus's. 'What did it say? Do you have it?'  
  
'No-- she burnt it years ago-- but she told me what it said.' Remus sighs. 'Apparently, when Lily...' He looks over at the couch where Harry appears to be sleeping, then he pulls out his wand and silently casts a _muffliato_ before continuing. 'Dumbledore thought that, in dying to protect Harry, Lily created a sort of protection spell over him-- very old and powerful blood-magic-- and that was why the AK rebounded. But the only way that protection could be sustained was if Harry lived with one who shared his mother's blood, and Petunia was the only other Evans left.'  
  
Sirius blinks, and scowls. 'That's a bloody awful reason to subject him to-- to all of that.'  
  
'I know, but it seems that Dumbledore isn't convinced that Voldemort is really gone for good,' Remus adds quietly. 'He thought Harry would need that protection again one day.'  
  
'Sod that,' Sirius growls. 'None of the rest of us who fought Voldemort ever had special protection spells; none of the Muggles he _murdered_ had-- _we'll_ protect Harry, and when he's old enough we'll teach him to protect himself-- he'll be raised a Marauder; he'll have the best chance we can give him.' Sirius's eyes are hard. 'But any magic that puts _blood_ before true family can go hang-- _nothing_ is worth leaving a child in a home like that. Nothing.'  
  
Remus nods, and squeezes his fingers. 'I know, Sirius... I know.'  
  
Sirius lets out a deep breath, then releases Remus's hand. 'You always were the reliable one, Moony...' He sits back on his heels. '...So, what's our status?'  
  
For a moment, Remus could almost imagine that they're back in Gryffindor Tower, plotting some new bit of mischief. He gives a tired smile. 'Surprisingly favourable, actually; the Dursleys hadn't reported Harry's disappearance at all, and I was able to reach Arabella Figg before she noticed and owled Dumbledore.'  
  
'Oh. That's...' Sirius smiles back. 'That's good.'  
  
'About the best we could hope for,' Remus agrees. 'So the Dursleys should be on their way out of the country by now, and Figg is under the assumption that this happened roughly a month ago and that Harry went with them when they left, and she believes that she _did_ attempt to notify Dumbledore of their movements-- no such letter ever existed, of course, but owls do go astray every so often; it's plausible enough that no one should look too deeply into it.' He snorts. '...You know, we as a society like to poke fun at muggles for their tendency to come up with mundane explanations for magical phenomena, but I rather think that's a _human_ tendency, not a uniquely muggle one.'  
  
Sirius gives a short laugh. 'Much easier to blame the owl than to catch a mischievous Marauder on a mission.' He grins, the crooked one Remus loves best. 'Especially our Moony-- has anyone told you lately that you're _very_ talented and clever?'  
  
'Only you, Pads-- and it's for the best if no one else catches on; we're far less likely to get caught if no one's paying attention.'  
  
Sirius gives a faint discontented noise that's half sigh and half almost-doglike whine. 'I don't like you being underappreciated...'  
  
Remus lifts a shoulder. 'It's not up to us, I'm afraid,' he says mildly. 'Anyway, that was the easiest bit, as they kept quiet about Harry and were already favourable to the idea of moving-- but Dursley had made a horrid fuss about you; it took the better part of the day to track down and erase all of the dog reports. And there's still a few loose ends to take care of-- the neighbours on Privet Drive, and Vernon Dursley's workplace, and--' He breaks off, having noticed the copious plumes of steam rising from the stove. 'Ah-- Pads, the kettle--'  
  
'Bugger,' says Sirius, jumping up to turn it off.  
  
Remus lifts his hand and makes a cutting motion, dispelling the _muffliato_. 'We won't be able to completely stop them from noticing he's gone,' he says, as Sirius pours their tea. 'Someone will have to notice eventually, but...' He smiles faintly. 'I'd say we've got a fair chance of pulling this off.'  
  
Sirius shoots Remus a disbelieving look over his shoulder. 'That sounds suspiciously like _optimism_, Moony... I didn't know you had it in you.'  
  
Remus hums, and thinks of Sirius, trying to apologise for coming back-- for coming to Remus with a problem too big to manage on his own, for not giving Remus a choice (as if there ever was another option Remus could have chosen). Remus takes a deep breath, and settles on the truth, much as it hurts to say. 'This is the first thing I've had to look forward to since-- well, in years. I think I deserve a bit of optimism.'  
  
Sirius's eyes go sad, and he turns back, offering Remus the cup of tea-- there's an unspoken question in the gesture, one Remus isn't entirely certain how to decipher (not _why_, because that answer is obvious-- Remus can't imagine how long it might have taken him to find something else to truly live for; perhaps never). 'Moony...'  
  
He accepts the cup (has no other answer to give). 'Ta, Pads.'  
  
Sirius regards him pensively, and then drops into one of the empty chairs, slouching against the edge of the table with his legs stretched out (because Sirius Black never could permit himself to sit in a chair like a sensible person) and watches as Remus sips his tea. 'So what exactly is it, then?' he asks after a moment. 'That you're looking forward to. Assuming this whole endeavour doesn't go tits-up.'  
  
Remus raises his eyebrows. 'I should think that's obvious. I have you, and Harry.'  
  
Sirius rolls his eyes. 'I mean _specifically_\-- how do you see this working?' He slides lower in his chair, his expression suddenly bleak. 'It's just that I... I can't. Anything past right now, or maybe the next couple of days... if I try to think about it I go blank, or... or I start thinking that something terrible is bound to happen.'  
  
Remus sighs. 'Honestly...? I haven't thought that far ahead either. And I think that's fine, for now-- we'll finish getting this bit sorted, and then we'll think about the next bit.' His mouth twitches. 'No battle plan survives first contact with the enemy, as they say-- I don't think we'll be any worse off for it.'  
  
Sirius lets out a deep breath. 'I suppose not.'  
  
Silence falls between them, and Remus sips his tea (he really will have to convince Sirius to put less sugar in; at this rate he'll run out and won't be able to afford more) and he lets the calm wash over him like a fall of rain, tumbling grey skies and cool clean air...  
  
And, at last, he feels the anger that has gripped him since early morning slowly melt away (like the full moon dipping towards the horizon, its pale maddening glow fading into the coming dawn, its slow wane taking the Wolf along with it); in the sudden absence of tension he is left with bone-deep exhaustion, limbs that can never be entirely his own still echoing with the aftershocks of shattering and splintering and (only reluctantly) pulling back together...  
  
Some time later, Sirius slides off his chair and rises, taking the near-empty cup from Remus's hands. 'Come on, Moony,' he says softly, 'let's get you to bed.'  
  
Remus's legs are not inclined to cooperate, and Sirius pulls him up (and does not comment on the fact that Remus really Should Have Known Better and did in fact overdo it even after Sirius quite plainly advised him not to, though Remus can feel the tacit _I told you so_ in the motion). He leans somewhat guiltily on Sirius's too-sharp shoulders (he knows he's heavier than he looks, dense werewolf bones and lean wiry muscle, and Sirius feels like spun glass beneath him) but somehow he makes it into bed without incident.  
  
Sirius shifts into his animagus form and jumps up beside him, and Remus drifts off with the familiar weight of the large black dog across his ankles, the scent of Padfoot warm and close on the air-- and it's the easiest he's slept in years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk how common this is, but I frequently invented New Rules to classic games as a kid xD ('better checkers' isn't an exact replica of those games, but it's very similar to some of the stuff I came up with, & I think Sirius would be the type to get really into it)    
<strike> also Sirius definitely ate bugs as a kid to gross out his brother & cousins; you can't convince me otherwise </strike>


	4. bury your heart yet still feel its ache

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey I know things have been super crazy lately; I hope you're all safe & healthy, and can find some comfort in this story! <strike>I really wanted to get this up sooner but this beastly chapter insisted on being 20k even after I chopped it in half... how did this happen, honestly idk why this particular story's chapters are all coming out 3x my usual chapter length</strike>
> 
> the chapter 3 & 4 illustrations are rebloggable [here](https://felix-duskglass.tumblr.com/post/619759680854556672/cts-3-4)!   


#### { bury your heart yet still feel its ache }

_Black, Sirius_ is the third name to be called at the Hogwarts Sorting Ceremony of September 1971. Remus will remember this moment more vividly than any other part of his first night at Hogwarts, more than the food or his own time under the hat and even more than the waxing gibbous making his joints weak and his stomach floppy: he will always remember his first impression of Sirius Black.

In many ways, Remus grew up more in the Muggle world than in the wizarding one-- his mum taught him muggle history and science and art, and he's always preferred muggle literature over the far more limited (and, in his opinion, poorer-quality) selection of wizarding novels, and when he was ill after the full moons and his head hurt too much to read they would watch films and television dramas on his mum's old telly. As long as he can remember, the Lupin household has had a number of lighthearted 'rules': _no magic in the kitchen_, and _quills for official correspondence only_, and _yes Lyall dear we do need a telephone_, and _apparition reserved for emergencies_. Of course Remus had learnt some magic too-- his da taught him about magical creatures and how to deal with the harmful ones; summers were spent discussing herbology in their overgrown back garden or while hiking and camping in the wildest corners of Snowdonia, while winters were devoted to home remedies and ancient runes, the old wandless nature-magic that resonates in his bones-- but he'd had almost no contact with wider Wizarding Society.

By age eleven, Remus had visited more magical workshops and potions labs than he could count, had met experts of little-known branches of sorcery from all over the world-- he knew the names and properties of hundreds of magical plants and could treat his own bites and scratches if necessary, and was nearly fluent in ancient runes, and he'd banished his first boggart at age nine-- but he'd never encountered another magical child before, and certainly never bothered to learn the intricacies of a society that deemed even the youngest werewolves too dangerous or too tragic or too vile to live. As the Lupins' hope for a lycanthropy cure waned, Remus had resigned himself to the knowledge that he would forever live apart from that world (it should have been _his_ world, but it's not, never could be). Even after accepting Professor Dumbledore's special invitation to Hogwarts (his thirst for knowledge too great to turn down the chance at a proper magical education) he knows that his time here will be short-lived, that he will soon return to his lonely friendless exile.

So when Sirius Black's name is called, Remus doesn't know the significance of the surname (it's a fairly common one for Muggles after all) and he hasn't the faintest idea why the girl next to him in line snorts and rolls her eyes and says _Slytherin obviously_ in a loud stage whisper before Sirius Black has even reached the Hat.

But Remus _does_ notice that the boy's robes fit him perfectly and somehow appear a deeper and richer shade of black than anyone else's, the same raven as his hair, and he wears shiny dragon-hide shoes that click sharply on the flagstones, and if he's at all nervous it doesn't show through the elegance and grace with which he glides up to the stool and sits down. Logically, Remus knows that Sirius Black must be an eleven-year-old kid just like all the rest of them, but it's hard to believe when he looks like he walked straight out of a fairytale.

A boy with thick glasses on the whispering girl's other side snickers and whispers back, 'I wouldn't be sure-- didn't you hear, he punched Lucius Malfoy on the train?' but the girl doesn't get a chance to reply as Professor McGonagall shoots the pair of them a stern glare, and then both immediately fall silent (probably wise, as she looks very strict).

Professor McGonagall lowers the Hat onto Sirius Black's head-- he sits on the stool with his back unnaturally straight, holding very still as it drops down over his eyes. And then silence falls... and stretches sideways, and deepens with each passing second, because the Hat has apparently decided to take its time. Sirius Black's hands rest on his knees with a sort of carefully constructed politeness, but Remus is sharp-eyed enough to see that his knuckles are white with tension-- the only sign that the boy is anything less than perfectly calm and collected.

Finally, the Hat's rip-mouth opens, and it loudly proclaims Sirius Black a Gryffindor, and Remus will never forget how that single word falls into the ringing silence like rolling thunder.

Only the faintest smattering of awkward applause breaks out, ending as quickly as it began and giving way to whispers (these coming especially strong from the Gryffindor and Slytherin tables) as anyone who was not already aware of the Situation picks up on the prevailing mood in the hall. The girl next to Remus gapes in silent astonishment, and the boy with glasses lets out a low whistle. Sirius Black stands in a movement like cut glass, and removes the hat and hands it back to McGonagall with an odd little motion almost like a bow, and then he turns and walks towards the table beneath the red and gold banners with his head held high-- he sits down with aristocratic poise, as though the whole length of it belongs to him, as though he hasn't noticed how the nearest students are throwing sidelong glances at him as though someone just sat a lethifold next to them (or a _werewolf_, even). Remus wishes he had that sort of unwavering confidence.

The strange mystery of Sirius Black is fascinating enough to take the edge off Remus's own nerves-- he still feels horribly exposed when his turn comes, like someone is bound to look at him and _know_, but he's relieved to find that after Sirius Black no one spares a second glance for his own patchy robes or his scars-- which are probably not nearly as prominent as his self-conscious anxiety makes them feel. The Hat takes a long time with him too, its odd little voice murmuring in his ear, telling him that his keen mind and thirst for knowledge would do well in Ravenclaw but in the end it says _better be Gryffindor_\-- and, miraculously, his new house greets _him_ (Remus Lupin, Dark Creature) with the same polite applause given to any other newly Sorted student (any student _except_ Sirius Black, Who Was Meant For Slytherin). He wonders what the Hat might have said to Sirius Black as he hands it back to McGonagall and walks along the table-- he can't stop thinking of the way everyone _stared_ in ways that are all too familiar (furtive looks laced with something almost like fear) and, in a moment of uncharacteristic boldness, Remus sits himself down directly next to the raven-haired boy.

Sirius Black, for his part, appears utterly unfazed by any part of this-- he watches the Sorting continue with idle disinterest, his chin resting in the palm of his left hand (the knuckles of which are coloured with the beginnings of a bruise). Up close, Remus notes that he has high angular cheekbones (very sharp even at age eleven) and dark arching eyebrows (perfectly matching the smooth silken black of his hair) and a sharp slightly-curved nose (long but not overly so, a very pleasing elegant shape). He is, without a doubt, the most strikingly _beautiful_ person Remus has ever seen-- it's an unearthly sort of perfection, of the sort that Remus has always imagined Tolkien's elves to possess, reminiscent of the old muggle legends of the Fae... 

And then Sirius Black's gaze slides over, and suddenly he's staring directly at Remus. His eyes are a bright silvery grey, like stormy skies and sharpened knives, framed by long dark lashes. Remus feels a shivery thrill run through him, and cannot look away.

'Remus Lupin,' says this strange boy, like he's testing the feel of it on his tongue. He has the poshest accent Remus has ever heard in person (the sort of accent that he had previously thought exclusive to the realm of film and television, posher even than most of the announcers on the BBC, an accent fit for a prince). 'You have quite a large nose,' Sirius Black observes.

'Erm, thanks,' Remus replies automatically, which (when he's had a moment to think about it) is probably a rather daft thing to say but Remus can't be bothered because _at least he didn't ask about The Scars_\--

And Sirius Black's face splits into a broad grin, which transforms his whole bearing, as though the brightness of his eyes has spilled out over the rest of him. 'We should be mates,' he says, lingering slightly on the last word as though he's never used it before, as though he wants to savour it.

Remus doesn't know that he will ever understand the strange unearthly being that is Sirius Black, but he feels his face smiling back as his mouth says something agreeable, and for a moment they could have been two ordinary boys, neither of them strange or unnatural.

Moments later, they are joined by two other boys in rapid succession-- Pettigrew and Potter-- the latter of whom is the boy in thick glasses who stood near Remus in the line, and who immediately proves himself to be the most open and talkative of their group. At James Potter's prompting, Remus learns that Sirius Black evidently does not think very highly of his family (_so, Gryffindor-- how do you like that?_ says Potter as he falls into the seat across from Sirius and gives him a pointed look, to which Sirius smirks and replies _it's bloody brilliant, my parents will hate it_ as though this is somehow desirable) and that he knows rather a lot of swears for a boy of eleven and has no reservations about using them (_is it true you punched Lucius Malfoy?_ asks Potter without preamble; Sirius shrugs and says _he's an insufferable arse-kissing twat, what's it to you Potter?_ which causes both Potter and Pettigrew to gape at him in stunned silence-- but Remus, who knows quite a lot of colourful language himself, simply raises a mild eyebrow, which earns him an inscrutable sideways glance from Sirius). As the Sorting concludes and it becomes clear that they are the only four Gryffindor boys of their year, James Potter declares that he's quite sure they will all be good friends, and that seems to have settled it-- though Remus doesn't think the other two boys have observed half of what he has.

For he detects something distinctly _familiar_ in Sirius Black-- a well-practised knack for sliding behind masks, concealing his most vulnerable secrets behind a careful facade (even his accent flips easily to suit his various acts, unbelievably posh one second before dropping into a common London drawl the next) and Remus wonders who this sharp-eyed boy really is beneath it all, what he so desperately wants to hide.

Remus says very little as the Feast continues, partly because he's shy about his working-class Welsh accent and secondhand robes, and partly because the food is every bit as delicious as his da told him it would be, and partly because the Wolf is shivering under his skin in anticipation, and partly because he's terrified that he'll say the wrong thing and Out himself and he'll get sent home in disgrace before he's even had his first lesson. But Remus is used to being the silent observer so he doesn't mind sitting quietly and listening.

He learns that James Potter is mad about Quidditch and seems well-accustomed to the idea that people will think highly of him, and his accent is nearly as posh as Sirius's princely one (but in a very old-timey sort of way like the black and white films Remus has watched with his mum); he's every bit as good-looking as Sirius but in a very different way, with his rich brown skin and messy hair and his easy dimpled smile. And Peter Pettigrew is utterly in awe of James and to a slightly lesser degree Sirius, a short and pudgy boy with watery blue eyes and a small pointed nose and a noticeable overbite and very straight blond hair that's roughly the colour and texture of straw; the effect is plain and a bit homely, which makes him a pleasantly comfortable contrast to James and Sirius; Remus does not know how he would be able to survive living in close quarters with these boys if _all_ of them had looked like--

'So how'd you get that?' asks James, looking straight at Remus and touching a finger to his own eyebrow so that there can be no doubt he's talking about the most prominent scar on Remus's face-- a deep gash starting on his forehead and cutting across his right eyebrow, running down across his cheek nearly to his jaw.

Remus freezes, his mind gone blank, a forkful of food stuck halfway to his mouth. He should have anticipated this, should have thought up a convincing (and nicely mundane) lie, anything that didn't involve full moons and transformations and--

'Tried to wrestle a rampaging erumpent,' says Sirius, in his poshest bored-aristocrat tone.

'Oh, yes, I wouldn't recommend it,' says Remus faintly, with a careful sort of calm he definitely does not feel, and then he puts his forkful of potatoes into his mouth and hopes that will put an end to it. 

And, miraculously, it _does_\-- James and Peter laugh at the obvious joke, and the subject is dropped, never to be mentioned again between the four of them (of course they will know where the scars really came from once they learn the truth about the Wolf, but they will understand without needing to ask). Remus still hates the scars, feels disfigured and hideous, but for the first time in his life he has met someone _new_ (someone not his parents) who has looked at the scars with something other than pity or disgust (or an inclination to pry until they know the truth and then it always invariably turns to those feelings). But here is Sirius Black, for whom the scars are nothing more remarkable than his nose or his eyebrows or the loose curls of his hair, a fact made all the more astonishing when he thinks of how he must look alongside Sirius's own perfection.

Most of their classmates (and certain less-than-kind upper-years) will not be so understanding, so of course this will not be the last time anyone asks about the scars-- but Remus will get better at lying, and his new friends will tell the persistent ones to shove off, and Sirius in particular will always be ready with a ridiculous new cover story, each more absurd than the last. And Remus will never ever forget the way those brilliant silver eyes locked onto his, how in that moment he knew that somehow, in some unseen and incomprehensible way, beautiful and flawless Sirius Black _understood_ what it was to have Scars.

* * *

In the dark, with Padfoot's nose pressed into Remus's warm patchy duvet and the relaxed rhythm of their combined breath slowly counting away the long hours of the night, Sirius feels as though he has come unmoored from the fabric of reality-- set adrift upon a chaotic shifting sea where time has lost all meaning, at the mercy of the cold indifferent tides and the murky treacherous depths of his own mind--

_Everything he touches is destroyed, coming apart at his fingertips-- dirty, broken, bringer of Death and Despair; he comes back only because they ask it of him but he knows, he knows, he is nothing but agony and disappointment and he should turn away, should give them the chance to grow and live and thrive... but they always take him back and he always goes along with it._

_They're in Gryffindor Tower and Remus twists fingers into his fur and lets the tears fall, lets himself be truly vulnerable with only the dog as witness; Remus gives it back in turn when the letter comes, sharing their grief for the loss of a mother, of an uncle, family worth holding on to-- all too soon the war looms over them in those red-canopied beds that had once felt so safe and secure, both pretending to be strong and fearless in the face of their fast-approaching and uncertain futures-- it's here that Remus holds him tightly, all but orders him to come back, insists that his stupid deadly mistakes are not the end, whispers again and again that he's not to blame--_

_He leaves that awful house at sixteen, he curls up on Remus's bed and doesn't yet realise that this too is a curse-- he ran away and now the brother he never stopped loving is dead and Remus holds him and he doesn't believe it, knows he could have stopped it the way he always did when they were small, when they were allies-- Remus holds him and doesn't know that only an hour ago he blasted a Death Eater off a roof; he can't bring himself to explain, can't put it into words that he's nineteen and a killer and he hated everything the bastard stood for but he can't forget the eyes staring from behind the mask, the crunch of flesh and bone against the pavement below--_

_The Last Summer comes and everything is falling apart; they hardly talk anymore but he sits vigil at the foot of Remus's bed all the same, tries not to think of the injuries sustained over the last few moons when Remus refused to let them come with him and still won't say where he's been; it's easier to ignore the Rat's uncomfortable questions when he's a dog, when Remus is vulnerable and asleep, when the mistrust and lies and bitterness are all shuttered away and Moony is soft and hurt, with his grey-tinged face and bruised sunken eyes and raw fresh scars--_

Sirius sits up, violently shakes himself out and closes canine jaws around his foreleg to ground himself (it's easier, this way; even the dementors' visions can't quite replicate genuine in-the-moment pain and sometimes if he can only remind himself that he exists in a body it keeps the mind-poison at bay). He tastes salt and iron-- blood. He's in Remus's basement flat in London and the war is ended and Harry is almost five and asleep on the couch in the main room. Fine, he's fine, he's here, he's fine...

Remus remains fast asleep in the dark, doesn't stir despite Padfoot's restlessness-- neither of them are quick to settle (often kept awake long into the night, both prone to nightmares and overactive minds) but Remus has always been a deep sleeper. Sirius, on the other hand, wakes at the drop of a quill, at the slightest touch-- a habit predating both Azkaban and the war, some holdover from a childhood filled with mistrust and fear...

..._And he's back in Grimmauld Place, in his room at the top of the house. Every creak of the stairs wakes him; every fragment of speech carrying along the narrow darkened halls leaves him lying awake for hours. The house is always cold, even in summer, and the nighttime noises are stark against its woolly silence, the cocoon of spellwork that blocks out all the noise of the Islington streets. When he's older, he'll learn to peel back the spells on his window, take comfort in the urban noise washing over him, but wreathed in the silencing spells every small noise is deafening_...

Sirius throws himself off the bed and paces out into the short hall on soft canine feet and gives up all pretense of trying to sleep. He can't shake the feeling that something terrible will happen the moment he closes his eyes... doesn't trust his own mind enough to be unconscious, even as Padfoot.

He's afraid; he can't shake the feeling that this is all there _is_. Broken, stuck with a mind that endlessly tracks backwards and dredges up all the things he wishes he could lay to rest (but not _forget_, never forget, because he's already lost far too much to wish that of even his very worst memories; if he loses _them_ as well he will truly have nothing left) and try as he might he cannot stop himself picking over the smallest minutiae, dwelling on the most shameful details, all the ways in which he has failed, never been good enough...

It shouldn't be this way (he has retained enough presence of mind to know that) and it scares him that even away from the dementors his head still isn't _right_.

Sirius paces between the two rooms, sits in the doorways and listens to their slow even breathing, the soft rustling of blankets as they shift in their sleep. He grasps at the small sounds as though they are a lifeline, as though they might finally convince him that he's _here_ and he's not alone and he isn't about to wake up back in his cell... Remus Lupin and Harry Potter are still alive, and that's the important thing, even if he can never quite belong to that life himself.

He knows that dawn will come early-- the nights are short now, the summer solstice only a few weeks off. In Azkaban, the shifts in light and shadow and the moon's ever-present pull were all he had to track the passing time-- _day and night, summer and winter, wax and wane; that wretched island is eternally shrouded in winter-midnight-cold but the light still shifts as it should; not even the dementors can blot out the sun. But he doesn't count the days, doesn't try. It's meaningless, irrelevant; this is his eternity._

_And yet the phases of the moon echo in his blood in his bones and he awaits each full knowing that each moonrise is another broken promise, another regret, another guilty mark against him. Never another full alone, he swore once, and it was a filthy lie; he's an ill omen and a curse and they'd taken him into their homes into their lives and he'd destroyed them all from the inside like the foul parasite he is (horrible unnatural child, shame upon our Noble House, abomination of my flesh)... He listens to the howls of the unlucky werewolf prisoners as the moon waxes full and he might as well be one of them, screaming at the walls and the sky until his canine voice gives out and is swallowed by the crash of the sea, his teeth digging into his own flesh. He listens but even if he lost all hearing the moon burns under his skin and he knows, he always knows, and he numbers them in bloody uneven marks upon the cold stone walls--_

The faint whimper jerks him back into the present-- Harry, tangled up in the blankets on the couch and wrapped in fear-scent, tossing and turning as he utters another soft cry.

Padfoot is there at once, touching his nose to Harry's forehead and licking the back of the small hand curled near the boy's face-- this doesn't seem to help, so Sirius shakes off the dog and puts his hand on Harry's shoulder. 'Harry, Prongslet, wake up,' he whispers urgently, voice no more than a faint rasp. 'Come _on_, mate...'

Harry starts awake, lets out a choked sob, and Sirius promptly gathers him into his arms, holds him close-- Harry sits stiffly at first, as though he doesn't know what to do with being held like this, as though he's forgotten what it was to turn to a parent for protection and comfort (because _of course_ Petunia had never offered him anything more than a dark cupboard and a locked door; of course he wouldn't have so much as a _memory_ of the loving family he should never have lost). After a moment, though, Harry relaxes against Sirius's chest, buries his face in the too-large jumper and holds on tight, and gradually the sobs begin to even out.

It reminds him of Reg, of Moony, dead sleepless nights spent holding a brother or a friend until they found peace in the contact between them, as though his presence alone was enough to keep the night terrors at bay. Even if this is, perhaps, all he has left to give, all he's good for, it brings him some small comfort to know he can still provide this even as everything else is on the verge of crashing down around his ears.

Harry drifts back to sleep, and Sirius carefully lifts him back onto the couch and tucks the blankets over him before turning back into Padfoot and settling onto the couch at his feet, trying to match the rhythm of his breathing, now slow and even and calm.

Dawn comes and pushes back the deep shadows of Moony's basement flat; dawn comes and Sirius shakes off the creeping exhaustion, tells himself _Never Again_ as though he can make it true by wanting.

  
Remus wakes a few hours later, with the little half-hidden winces and the slightly-pinched smile Sirius knows all too well-- yesterday's overlong hours of dragging himself all over Surrey have caught up to him, leaving him stiff and sore. Sirius brings him the vial of pain-potion and a mug of tea (brewed extra strong, three sugars and a dash of milk) and Remus grimaces but takes the potion anyway and tosses it back, sips the tea slowly and lets it roll over his tongue as though he's trying to wash away the potion's bitter aftertaste, or perhaps just wants to savour it (he complains about the sugar again, but the look of bliss that steals across his features as he drinks says otherwise; Moony loves his sweets just as much as always).

Sirius has already gone dog-shaped again, resting his chin on one of Remus's knees-- the Azkaban chill continues to crowd at the edges of his mind and the physical contact helps to ground him, and it feels far more acceptable to press up against Moony when he's Padfoot, less like an invasion (he remembers in disjointed flashes how he used to throw himself at his friends, marvelling at the fact that he _could_ and they thought nothing of it because evidently most families do _not_ consider craving human contact to be shameful and weak-- but he can't do that now, can't imagine it would be welcome). After going so long without that contact, he needs it now more than ever before, and as with many things this is simpler to the dog-- Moony smells like _Friend_ and _Home_ and _Pack_, and Padfoot is content just to have hands stroking his fur and the solid warmth of another body at his side. In this form, he can safely rest his head in Moony's lap or lick all over his face without it being Weird (and if, perhaps, there is some strange part of him that longs to do those things even while human-shaped, he doesn't need to examine or quantify those particular urges, can brush them off as 'canine instincts' and leave it at that).

Remus's free hand absently finds its way to his favourite scritchy spot just behind the ears, and Sirius shivers slightly and leans into it, draping himself more heavily across his friend's legs in the process (which has the added benefit of pinning Remus more solidly against the bed, where he really ought to stay and rest). He would have been perfectly content to stay there for some time, but after only a few minutes his ears prick up at the faint sound of rustling blankets from the other room: _Harry_. He'll be needing breakfast... 

Remus drains the rest of his tea and sets the mug aside. 'I was thinking,' he begins in his mildest tone, 'that the next stages of our operation will be easiest to accomplish over the weekend or at night.' Sirius lifts his head slightly (a silent question) and Remus continues, 'Today is friday, so it would make sense to rest for now and resume tomorrow.'

Sirius huffs out a breath, and then sits up, freeing Remus's legs. Of course, they are both well aware that Remus would not have accomplished much if he tried to go out again in his current state (not to mention that there was next to no chance of Sirius letting him try) but Sirius can indulge him the polite fiction that the rest-day is simply the most logical course rather than a strict necessity (this aversion to showing weakness in the presence of others is a trait they both share, after all). Sirius gives his cheek a brief lick, then hops to the floor and pads off to the kitchen. It's enough, for now. 

Remus follows a moment later (after putting on his dressing gown) and fetches the eggs from the cold cupboard. Sirius shifts back to help, even though the kitchen is small and he's pretty sure Remus was always better at eggs than he is (he remembers a younger Remus and his father at the odd muggle stove in the Lupin cottage, shivery rain-tinged morning light creeping in the windows, the smell of cinnamon toast and scrambled eggs and coffee). Remus talks to Harry while he makes the eggs, but Sirius misses whatever it is they're saying; his mind feels like it's going quarter speed and when he starts to push up the too-long sleeves of his borrowed jumper he catches sight of the angry red marks adorning his wasted forearm, ground into the skin-- and he quickly shoves the sleeve back down, hopes they haven't seen.

He feels like he's caught underwater, floating weightless in the murky gloom amid voices both too close and too far off thrumming in his ears-- he's coming undone at the edges, slowly unravelling; he's drowning and unsure which way is up; he's caught on the knife's-edge between uneasy dreams and uncertain reality and he doesn't know how to hold himself together...

* * *

Remus can see Sirius's energy flagging all through breakfast: he eats mechanically as though unable to taste the food, and his eyes have gone glassy and distant and Azkaban-dark, and he hardly responds to their conversation in spite of Remus's attempts to include him. He expertly folds it away as he gets up, smiling and giving Harry's already-tragic bedhead an additional ruffle before heading off to use the loo-- perhaps, to someone who knew him less well, he might have passed the mood off as nothing to worry about (and Harry, fortunately, doesn't seem concerned) but Remus isn't fooled. Azkaban has undoubtedly worn Sirius down from the bright high-energy person he once was, and Remus is still adjusting to those changes, but the little tells are almost eerily similar to the Sirius of a decade ago-- the bruised shadows under bloodshot eyes, the way his focus constantly darts about the room, the stiff set of his shoulders, the slight twitching of his fingers-- it's clear that this is going to be a rough day.

Remus sends the dishes to the sink and gets up, waiting just outside the door to the washroom as the toilet flushes and the taps run; he steps forward just as soon as Sirius opens the door (cornering him before he can shift into the dog again and avoid any attempt at conversation). Without preamble, Remus says, 'Padfoot, when was the last time you slept?'

'I'm fine,' says Sirius, putting on a smile. 'Rested a bit while you were sleeping.'

Remus reads between the lines (easy enough, being as well-acquainted with Sirius's insomnia as he is) and stands his ground in the doorway. 'You know that's not a real answer as well as I do.'

Sirius drops the smile and looks away, folding his arms over his chest. 'Mmngph.'

'...It's been two days, hasn't it?' says Remus, quickly tallying it up in his head. 'Not since you last took the potion.' Sirius says nothing, and suddenly seems very intent on examining the faint cracks in the plaster wall, his scowl deepening. Remus sighs. 'We lived together for nearly a decade, Sirius; I can _tell_ when you've been up too long. You go all twitchy.'

Sirius shrugs, still not meeting Remus's eyes. 'It's not as though we're doing anything _active_,' he says (a little petulantly, Remus thinks). 'I'm perfectly capable of sitting on my arse all day.'

'And you still need to _sleep_, Pads. It's good for your mind.'

Sirius gives him a look so deeply etched with doubt and scepticism it's almost comical-- or might have been, were it not for the fact that Sirius has likely not had a single night of restful sleep in _years_ (not since before Azkaban). 'Sod off,' he mutters, trying to edge past Remus.

'It _is_,' Remus insists, his tone as gentle as his stance in the doorway is firm. 'Both our Healers and the Muggle doctors say so.' He nods towards the medicine cabinet in the washroom. 'You're welcome to take more of the sleeping draught, if that would help.'

Sirius glowers at him. 'I hate how that stuff makes me feel-- it makes my head go all fuzzy.'

'Or I could use a drowsiness charm if you prefer,' says Remus sweetly, drawing out his wand-- he only means it as a joke, of course, but Sirius's eyes track Remus's hand and he flinches back almost imperceptibly. Remus sighs and shoves it back up his sleeve, holding up empty hands. 'I'm not going to spell you like that if you're not okay with it, Pads-- though if your primary concern is nightmares, the potion really _is_ your best option.'

Sirius watches him for a moment, his back rigid, and grudgingly turns aside to retrieve the potion bottle from the cabinet. '...You're not going to leave off until I do, are you.'

Remus snorts. 'Two can play that game, Sirius.'

'I _knew_ it,' Sirius mutters under his breath. 'You're just getting back at me for the moons.'

'And I reckon our reasons are the same,' Remus adds. '_Neither_ of us can afford to self-destruct.'

Sirius gives a hollow laugh. 'Bit late for that, mate.'

Remus smiles thinly. 'Worse than we already have, then.' He reaches for the empty glass by the sink. 'Look-- you take the potion, and I swear I'll have a proper lie-down today, and again once I've finished tying up all the loose ends. Deal?'

Sirius pauses, considering. 'You'll wake me right away, if...?'

'Marauder's honour.' Remus places his hand on Sirius's too-thin shoulder. 'I'll be right here, Pads-- we're not about to run off and abandon you.'

'I know, Moony,' he answers quietly, and unstoppers the potion bottle with a faint pop. He stares down at his hands, fingers pressed tight against the tinted glass, then closes his eyes and tilts his head back against the wall. '...Buggering fuck, I _hate_ this.'

'It'll get easier.'

'You can't _know_ that,' he whispers, barely audible. In that moment, he looks terribly vulnerable, his voice heavy with despair.

Remus holds the glass out for him. 'Perhaps not. But I know it's worth making the effort.' He pauses, and adds, 'For Harry.'

Sirius sighs, but pours out a dose of potion, handing the bottle back to Remus before draining the glass-- he sets it down beside the tap and braces himself against the edge of the sink for a moment, eyes closed, before he shakes himself out and glances up at Remus again. 'See you in a bit then,' he says, and turns into Padfoot and goes to curl up on the rug.

Remus sighs and puts the potion away, trying not to worry too much. He returns to the kitchen, where he finds Harry standing on his chair at the sink, carefully washing their breakfast dishes despite all prior assurances that he doesn't need to-- perhaps he needs more than a few days to adjust. Remus steps up beside him, taking the plate he's just finished rinsing. 'Here-- I'll dry,' he offers (not wanting Harry to think he's in trouble).

'Okay.' Harry falls quiet, passing Remus the dishes one by one as he finishes washing them (he's far better at the task than any child should be-- Petunia's doing, no doubt; her kitchen had reeked so strongly of bleach it made Remus's sinuses burn). 'Is Padfoot feeling bad today?' asks Harry, as Remus takes the last of the dishes.

'It's been hard for him to sleep,' Remus answers truthfully. 'He's taken the potion, though, and he'll feel better once he's rested a bit.'

Harry frowns down at his hands. '...I'm sorry,' he mumbles. 'I didn't mean to...'

'You didn't do anything wrong, Harry; it's--'

'No, you don't--' Harry ducks his head in shame. 'I made _noise_ at night. It's my fault he didn't sleep, because I'm noisy and a bother and--'

'Oh, Harry, _no_,' Remus says, putting his hands on Harry's shoulders and giving them a gentle squeeze. 'Harry, listen to me-- Padfoot has _always_ had trouble sleeping, even when we were in school together. It's _not_ your fault, I promise.'

Harry doesn't say anything right away, scrutinising his face as though trying to catch him in a lie. '...You're sure?'

'Yes-- and we would _want_ you to wake either of us, if you have a nightmare or you're scared or you need anything at all-- all right?

Harry still looks doubtful, but he nods, and a moment later looks back up at Remus. 'Moony? If the potion helps Padfoot sleep without nightmares, why didn't he take it at night when the rest of us are sleeping?'

Remus sighs. 'I suspect he doesn't feel safe having us all sleep at the same time, in case something bad happens. After everything he's been through, he's not used to having a safe place to rest.'

...Or perhaps he's _never_ been used to it, Remus thinks several minutes later, as he steps into the shower-- Remus remembers Sirius, still only eleven, sat in the deep window of their dorm long past midnight, bathed in the silvery light of a waning gibbous. Sirius, who woke with a start at the slightest touch, the only Marauder who went seven years without being pranked in his sleep by simple virtue of the fact that they could never seem to _catch_ him properly asleep. How sometimes he'd put his head down during theoretical lectures in class, and he'd appear utterly dead to the world until the professor called on him and then he'd pop upright and rattle off a perfectly coherent (and nearly always _correct_) answer, as though he was completely aware all along... 

And there was the one time shortly after winter hols in first year, when Remus was lying awake (the moon pounding in his blood) and heard Sirius tossing fitfully against his blankets, mumbling things that sounded like _no it's dark_ and _stop it hurts_ and _let me out_\-- and how after Remus tried to bring it up he'd started casting Silencing Charms around his bed at night but Remus knew from the smell of _fear_ that he still had nightmares on the regular.

He never asked _why_ sleep so often eluded Sirius (or what those nightmares were about) because he'd convinced himself that if it was something worth mentioning Sirius would bring it up on his own terms. Now, he thinks of the fact that _he_ never would have brought up his lycanthropy had Sirius not broached the topic first, taken the choice out of his hands... and he thinks how some secrets grow into ravenous all-consuming things, sinking their teeth and claws into you and refusing to let go until they have utterly devoured you from within, and he _wonders_...

But it's clear that Sirius still isn't keen on talking about it, and Remus doesn't want him to feel pressured, so he supposes that is the end of it.

He shuts off the shower and gets dressed, and asks if there is anything in particular that Harry would like to do while Padfoot sleeps. Harry just shrugs, looking as though he doesn't quite know what to do with himself in the absence of his awful relatives screaming orders at him, and eventually pulls out his drawing pad again.

Some time after they have lapsed into silence (Harry doodling while Remus starts to read through the advance copy of a new book his father has passed on to him) Remus notices Harry's gaze straying over to his book collection-- the mismatched bookshelves take up the whole wall opposite the kitchenette but still can't quite manage to hold Remus's entire collection, the remainder spilling over into several stacks on the desk pushed against the wall. The books are one of Remus's few possessions that he's held on to through the war and his frequent stretches of unemployment, a personal pleasure he's never quite been able to give up (especially when he can conveniently justify keeping them for 'business reasons', as references for his occasional jobs in research and editing).

Harry turns to look at him. 'Er-- Mr Moony? Have you really read _all_ those books?'

'Most of them, yes-- there's a handful I haven't had the chance to read yet.'

'Only... I've never seen so many books all in one place before.'

Remus frowns at this-- he owns quite a few books, yes, but his collection is far from library-scale (not remotely impressive by his own standards) and the implications of that are distinctly troubling. 'Your Aunt and Uncle have never taken you to a library, or a bookstore?'

'They don't take me anywhere if they can help it,' Harry replies dully. 'And I don't think they like reading much-- not _books_, anyway. Uncle Vernon reads the newspaper every morning and Aunt Petunia likes those magazines about famous people, but that's about it. Dudley hates books and only wants to watch the telly, and Uncle Vernon says it's fine because he doesn't want his son to be a swotty nancy boy.'

'Ah,' says Remus. 'Well, I hope you know that there's nothing wrong with enjoying books, Harry. I'm afraid your Aunt and Uncle are rather closed-minded people.'

Harry frowns. 'Because they don't read books?'

'Hm, well, books are only one way of learning about new things, experiencing new worldviews. It's more that they aren't willing to step outside their comfort zone-- they refuse to accept that there are things they don't understand or might be wrong about.'

'Like how they always told me that magic isn't real, even though Aunt Petunia knew my mum and dad were magic all along?'

'Yes-- a bit like that.' Remus sets his book aside. 'No one knows everything, Harry. It's an important skill to have, to be able to admit that we're wrong and try to learn from our mistakes.'

Harry nods solemnly, and looks back at the shelf. 'Is it very hard, learning how to read?' he asks, a little wistfully.

'Erm-- I'm afraid I don't quite remember,' says Remus. 'I must have been younger than you when I first started... but I would be happy to help you learn.'

'I'd like that,' says Harry. 'I didn't know that reading could be _fun_, and you've got _so many_ books and they're all about _magic_.'

'Oh, no-- not all of them are,' says Remus. 'Actually, I tend to prefer Muggle literature; aside from spellbooks and other informative texts like the ones on plants and creatures, I find wizarding books to be... lacking in imagination.'

Harry frowns slightly, and then shrugs. 'Well, I suppose it would be rather dull if books were all the same. You wouldn't need so many different ones, then.'

Remus smiles. 'Quite.' He shifts his chair closer to Harry's, so he's got a better view of the pad of paper. 'Perhaps we could start by going over what you already know-- I can see you've written your name there, so I assume someone has taught you your letters?'

Harry nods. 'Mrs Figg taught me. And I learnt all the cleaners Aunt Petunia likes to use so she wouldn't be cross with me for bringing her the wrong ones.' He pauses, and sinks down a little in his chair. 'Only, I don't think I can remember those well enough to write them down-- er, sorry.'

Remus takes a deep breath, and pointedly reminds himself why he cannot hex Petunia Dursley into oblivion-- he pushes down the prickle of anger (_treated him like a bloody house-elf_, Sirius had said) and schools his expression back to his carefully mild facade, and assures Harry that it's not a problem. Instead, he sets about teaching Harry to write a handful of simple words (mostly common items around the flat) in addition to _Padfoot_ and _Moony_ (which Harry has insisted they should start with).

Teaching Harry leaves Remus feeling a bit wistful and nostalgic-- he had enjoyed tutoring younger students for extra credit while at Hogwarts, and his friends had often joked about how one day he'd become a Respectable Professor and receiving his Prefect badge was only the first step on his journey to a dusty scholarly future. But they had stopped teasing when it became apparent that he genuinely would have loved to teach-- and that he was quite possibly the least rule-abiding Prefect in the entire history of Hogwarts, the new responsibility doing very little to temper his love of mischief. As a graduation gift, the Marauders and Lily had given him a custom-made travelling case stamped with the name _Professor R J Lupin_, enchanted with some very clever Undetectable Extension Charms and Feather-Weight spells so he could fit all his books inside and easily carry them with him.

It had been a far-fetched dream, of course, and they'd all known it-- unlikely that a werewolf would ever be able to hold a teaching position, no matter how qualified he was-- but it had meant the world to him just to know that they all supported him and wanted to see him succeed, even if teaching wasn't as flashy or exciting as some of the other jobs they had discussed.

He has never taught a child as young as Harry (and never imagined he would) but he has found the experience surprisingly pleasant; Harry is bright and clever and eager to learn, and Remus thinks again how fortunate they all are that Sirius found the strength to achieve the impossible and bring them back together.

  
They take a break for a simple lunch (which Sirius sleeps through) and afterwards Harry continues to practise his writing while Remus turns back to his book.

After a period of quiet, Harry looks up and asks, 'What's your book about?'

'It's a new treatise on Non-Human Spiritous Apparitions-- er, that's what we call creatures that are not technically alive, but never were, which sets them apart from ghosts. They were formerly known as _Non-Beings_, but new research has shown that some of them are self-aware and capable of sentient thought, which has rendered the term obsolete since _Non-Being_ was used to imply that...' Remus stops, noticing that Harry's eyes have gone a bit glazed; the subject is evidently beyond a four-year-old's understanding. '...Well, in any case, my father is known as something of an expert in the field; he contributed several research articles to this book, so he sent me a copy for review.'

Harry's eyes go very wide. 'Your _dad_ wrote a book?'

'Only parts of this one-- but yes, he has published some of his work.'

'Can we read from that book tonight?' Harry asks enthusiastically.

Remus smiles, but shakes his head. 'I don't think you'd enjoy this one at all; I'm afraid it's rather dry, and written with the assumption that the reader already knows the basics of the subject, so it's probably best to wait until you're a bit older.'

'Oh,' says Harry, looking a bit crestfallen. 

'But you might enjoy his first book,' Remus adds, summoning the book from its place on the shelf with a wave of his wand. 'Several years ago he published a collection of stories about some of the more exciting creatures he's dealt with in his line of work. It's his job to help people when a magical creature is causing trouble for them and they don't know how to get rid of it-- often the victims are Muggles, so they can't even understand what sort of creature they're facing, let alone how to protect themselves. I'd be happy to read these stories with you.'

'I'd like that,' Harry says with a grin. 'Your dad sounds really cool.'

'I suppose so,' Remus says with a smile. 'He started teaching me about magical creatures when I was about your age-- and as I got a bit older, he would take me along on some of his less dangerous missions.'

'Wicked,' says Harry. 'So he taught you about creatures and magic, just like you're teaching me?'

'That's right,' says Remus. 'And my mum taught me nonmagical things, since she couldn't do magic-- there are quite a lot of things that Muggles have got figured out better than the magical community as a whole, so I'm grateful that I got to learn about both perspectives.'

Harry frowns at this. 'But if your mum doesn't have magic, then...'

'She was still very proud of me, and encouraged me to learn how to use my magic even though she couldn't,' Remus says gently. 'Just as I know your mum and dad would be so proud of you, and very glad that you've found your way home to us.'

Harry turns to blink at him, green eyes wide and uncertain. '...Home?' he echoes, in a small voice that breaks Remus's heart.

'Yes,' he manages past the lump in his throat. 'Home. This is your home.'

* * *

Sirius wakes up a bit disoriented-- he sits up and vigorously shakes himself out before shrugging off the dog and getting back to his feet (he definitely still hates that stupid potion for leaving his mind so foggy, even if it does help him stay asleep with fewer nightmares). Over at the table, Remus glances up from the game of cards he's playing with Harry and tells him it's half four in the afternoon, and that there's a sandwich in the fridge that he can have if he's hungry. Sirius isn't, really (as his body had adjusted to eating so very little for so long) but he obediently heads to the kitchen anyway and has a bit of the sandwich anyway. This was evidently the right choice; he feels much more alert once he's finished, especially now that he's had the chance to shake off the last lingering effects of the potion.

Before he can start to feel truly restless, though, Remus suggests a walk through the park, with the reasoning that they could all use a bit of fresh air. Remus makes sure Harry's hat is securely in place over his scar, then casts a few notice-me-not spells over both Harry and Padfoot (as these are far quicker than the detailed glamours, and they're not planning to head to the shops where this type of spell would get in the way) and then the three of them head out.

It feels good to get outside, fresh air and fresh smells, the chance to stretch his legs-- it's a lot all at once, a chaotic mess of sensory input, but the Dog isn't easily overwhelmed by that sort of thing, the external chaos easily preferable to the noise in his head.

Upon arriving in the park, he remembers his earlier promise and swiftly locates a good-sized stick, which he brings to Harry with his tail wagging (an automatic response that he can't suppress even if he tries). Harry grins and accepts the offering, then throws it as hard as he can, and Padfoot takes off at a run after it, everything but the chase forgotten.

Remus sits on a park bench to watch, and can't help but smile at Padfoot's antics, which only makes the Dog more eager to impress his Moony-- back in fifth year (when the animagus forms were still a novelty) Sirius had been too proud to admit how much he enjoyed going for runs and playing fetch as a dog, but he'd soon given it up; apart from the fact that Padfoot's body language can't lie, it was worth sacrificing his dignity just to elicit that soft smile. Just as he did back then, he finds himself pushing against his limits to run faster and jump higher (the Dog is every bit as starved and wasted as his human body, but in this form he's always been capable of a level of strength and stamina beyond what he could manage as a man). He's rewarded with a cheer when he makes a particularly impressive leap to catch the stick in his jaws, and trots back over to where Remus and Harry are waiting, dropping the stick at their feet and resting his chin on Remus's knee for ear-scritches.

Harry climbs up onto the bench beside Remus and pats Padfoot on the head as well, his small hands alongside Remus's larger ones, and Sirius marvels at the fact that he's really _here_, with his two Most Important People (the only two he has left) and while he's folded up within the Dog that's all he really needs.

...And then he straightens up and shakes himself out, and flops over to roll in the grass, and Remus sighs and gives him that particular fond frown that seems to be reserved specially for him and mutters something about not letting him on any of the furniture til he's had a bath. Padfoot sits up again with his best mock-offended look, and then starts back in the direction of the flat, with Harry and Remus at his heels.

By the time they're back inside, Remus decides that casting a quick cleaning charm over Padfoot's fur is good enough for the moment, as it's about time to start making dinner-- Sirius can't help but notice the book left out on the table, and after Harry talks excitedly of how Moony's dad _wrote_ it, Sirius finds himself reading the first story out loud, offering occasional commentary of his own-- the account tells of an incident very early on in Lyall's career, when he was still a junior member of the Spirits Division of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. As a rookie, he was first in line to be dispatched on the more unsavoury (or in many cases, just plain dull and tedious) missions.

On this particular day, he was called to a remote Northumbrian village to sort out an infestation of hinkypunks (Remus interrupts here to explain for Harry's benefit that hinkypunks are small apparitions that conjure light-orbs to lure travellers into swamps and bogs, where they trap and feed on their victims) but Lyall had quickly found that the problem ran far deeper than the original reports had indicated-- at the heart of a dark wooded valley not far from the village, he discovered a pair of rogue sorcerers producing a variety of illicit potions and powders (the sort of substances you could only find if you knew the correct dealers in Knockturn, and then only if you knew all the right codes); this also explained the truly alarming overabundance of hinkypunks, as the sorcerers were cultivating them so that they could harvest the essence within their smoky 'bodies', one of the primary ingredients they needed for their products.

Sirius has just reached the part of the story where the young Lyall was faced with the choice between following protocol and calling in the Aurors for help (at risk of the sorcerers escaping) or trying to resolve it himself, when Remus announces that the food is ready. Harry (who was hanging onto Sirius's every word) gives him a comically betrayed look, and Remus promises that they'll get back to the story just as soon as they've all eaten dinner. Sirius isn't especially hungry on account of his very late lunch, but he gratefully accepts the cup of hot tea Remus has set down at his side (black with a touch of lemon and honey) as his voice is still very rusty from its years of disuse and all the reading has left it on the verge of giving out entirely. He is content with sipping his tea, picking a little at his own bowl of food but mostly just watching in silence while Remus and Harry eat-- it is perhaps a little strange, the degree of comfort he draws from this simple act, but he doesn't waste too much energy dwelling on it; he's always been able to find satisfaction in seeing the people he loves receiving adequate care, even when he cannot find peace within himself.

After they've washed up and put the leftover food away, Harry is so eager to hear the rest of the story that Remus agrees to read to him while he's in the bath-- the account tells how Lyall had chosen to tackle the problem on his own, as he had already bypassed the borders of their Wards and by the time he left and got help they would surely have fled-- the two men had evidently been counting on this, as he found them hastily attempting to gather up their most important pieces of equipment. He swiftly stunned the older of the two men, while the younger took advantage of the distraction and attempted to flee-- unfortunately for him, he ran directly into the hinkypunk-infested woods (and Lyall's account pauses here to note that the second man was never found). The Ministry, of course, had offered Lyall only the most grudging appreciation for his efforts, alongside a stern reprimand for 'failing to follow protocol'.

Harry frowns at this (his fingers distinctly pruney by now, and most of the bubbles gone) and says, 'But he caught the main bad guy, and stopped them making any more bad potions! Why were they so cross with him?'

Sirius, who is stood with one shoulder braced against the doorframe to listen in, snorts derisively. 'That's what they're like, Prongslet-- the twats in charge of the Ministry don't like it when people decide not to follow their rules. Unless it's one of _them_ doing the rule-breaking, of course, then they can get away with whatever pleases them.'

Harry's frown deepens. 'Well that's stupid.'

'Exactly!' says Sirius, smacking himself on the leg for emphasis. 'Stick it to the man, kiddo. Fight the power; be the change you want to see in the world.'

Remus rolls his eyes and closes the book, setting it up on the shelf. 'He's a bit young for all that, Pads.'

Sirius arches his brows. 'There is no such thing as too young to be _Punk_, Moony. Besides which, if I'd followed all the rules, I'd still be...' He falls silent, but going by the look on Remus's face, he doesn't need to finish that sentence. _I'd still be in Azkaban_.

He hardly hears what Remus says next (encouraging Harry to finish up in the bath and dry off and get dressed) before he nudges Sirius out into the hall and closes the door behind them.

'Sirius,' Remus murmurs, 'are you...?'

'Fine. Sorry, it's just...'

Remus raises his eyebrows, and pulls something out of his pocket, offering it to Sirius-- half a bar of chocolate, which is such a _Remus-y_ response that it startles a laugh out of Sirius.

'Never change, Moony,' he says, snapping off a piece and putting it into his mouth just as Harry emerges from the washroom-- Harry has evidently spent the last few minutes coming up with a whole new set of questions about the hinkypunk story, and Sirius lets Remus nudge him into taking a bath of his own. He leaves the lights off as he sinks into the hot water, pressing his ragged fingertips against one of the scabbed-over bite-marks on his forearm as he listens to the murmur of voices just beyond the door, telling himself that _he's here, he's here, he's here_...

* * *

After Remus gets Harry settled down for the night, he goes to knock softly on the washroom door. 'Padfoot?' he calls softly. 'You alright?'

There's a thump, a splash, and a hoarse call of 'Y-yeah, almost done!'-- which leaves Remus wondering if Sirius had fallen asleep in the bath, or perhaps just gone wherever his mind drifts off to when his eyes go flat and Azkaban-dark. 'Don't come in yet, m'alright,' he adds, as though he's guessed at what Remus is thinking. A moment later, Remus can hear the bath draining, and then Sirius opens the door, hair still dripping and scattered all over the place, as though he'd tried to shake it dry like the dog he sometimes is. The lights are off in the room behind him, and his pupils retract as he emerges into the dim hallway.

Remus offers him a crooked smile. 'Your jumper's on inside out, did you know?'

Sirius blinks, and looks down at himself. '...Oh, this?' He spreads his arms. 'Figured I'd try a new look-- how d'you like it?'

Remus snorts and quirks one eyebrow. 'And what sort of 'look' is that meant to be?'

Sirius shrugs. 'Not giving a shit, I suppose.'

'You could pick out something else, you know.' Remus nods towards his room. 'Something a bit more Punk than that old jumper.'

'Doesn't matter, though, does it? Not like I'll be going outside anytime soon, except as Padfoot, so...'

'Come look anyway,' says Remus, reaching out to take Sirius by the wrist (too thin, all knobbly jutting bones). 'It might help you feel more like yourself, not sitting around in pyjamas all day.'

Sirius sighs, allowing himself to be pulled along into the bedroom. 'Don't even remember what that's s'posed to be,' he mumbles as Remus drops his hand to open the chest where he keeps his spare clothes.

Remus glances up. 'How do you mean?'

'Feeling _like myself_. How am I supposed to...' Sirius runs his hands through his hair. 'I don't even have my _magic_ anymore, not like I used to-- even with the wand, it was--' He lifts a hand in a vague gesture. 'It feels like I'm trying to catch smoke.'

It had always come so easily to him, Remus knows-- whether some byproduct of his upbringing or something innately his, Sirius had been the most _magical_ person Remus had ever known. He sits back on his heels, thinking for a moment, then turns to face Sirius. 'Would you say it's more like... are you scraping the bottom of the jar and coming up with hardly any jam because it's empty, or are you trying to reach the jam that you _know_ is still there at the bottom only your knife's not long enough?'

Sirius opens his mouth, frowns, and pauses, chewing his lip. '...The second one, I think. It's... I can feel it but I can't properly hold onto it.'

Remus nods. 'That's what I thought-- you haven't suddenly turned into a Squib; you just need to improve your focus.'

Sirius snorts, one eyebrow raised. 'And how does one accomplish that, o wise and brilliant Professor Moony?'

'Well, you used to be quite decent at wandless casting,' Remus says, refraining from rolling his eyes at the title. 'I know wandless exercises are supposed to help improve focus and control-- perhaps you could try for some basic spells, like light and levitation.'

Sirius sighs. 'It's an idea... I don't know if I can.'

'Azkaban is warded to drain its prisoners of their power-- entirely apart from the damaging effects of long-term solitary confinement and constant exposure to dementors. It will probably be some time before you're back up to full strength.'

'If _ever_,' Sirius adds quietly.

Remus stands up and puts his hands on Sirius's shoulders, holds him until he (somewhat reluctantly) looks up again. 'You're right, of course,' Remus says, not bothering to tone down the harsh edge that comes into his voice. 'You'll never get there if you _give up_ before you've even tried.'

Sirius's eyes flash, his shoulders going stiff under Remus's hands before he shoves them off. 'Who ever said I'm _giving up_?'

Remus quirks one eyebrow. 'If you're not, I suggest you stop acting like it and prove otherwise.'

'Fine, I _will_,' Sirius snaps, stalking off to the main room. 

Remus just shakes his head and turns back to the chest, sorting through some old t-shirts. It's oddly reassuring that even now, after everything he's been through, Sirius cannot resist a direct challenge.

* * *

Harry wakes up the following morning to find Padfoot sitting cross-legged on the rug, staring intently at a handful of small items (a bottle cap, a strange silver coin that doesn't look like any money Harry recognises, a pencil stub, a couple of checkers) all of which are hovering at around eye level. As Harry watches, Padfoot attempts to add a polished round stone to his collection of floating objects-- he's got it almost halfway up to the rest when the bottle cap and one of the checkers drop back to the rug.

'Bugger,' Padfoot growls under his breath; the stone wobbles as he turns his glare back to the remaining three. Harry starts to sit up, trying to get a better look without making any noise, but he accidentally kicks a cushion to the floor-- Padfoot jumps at the noise and loses his hold on the spell completely.

Harry winces as the small items hit the carpet, one of the checkers rolling away across the floor until it hits the wall next to the washroom. 'Er, sorry...'

But Padfoot's expression immediately brightens as he glances over his shoulder. 'Harry! You're awake.'

He lifts an arm invitingly; Harry slides down to the floor, and Padfoot ruffles his hair and gives him a one-armed hug. Harry hugs him back, and then asks, 'What were you trying to do with those?'

'It's just a basic levitation spell-- this sort of thing is supposed to improve control; Moony reckons it might help me feel better, said I should try it.' Padfoot picks up the coin, turning it over in his fingers. 'Six is the most I've been able to manage so far, but only for a couple seconds...' He sighs. 'I used to be a lot better at this.'

'Oh. Did you forget how?'

'Not exactly-- it's a bit harder to stay focused well enough to hold the spell, but the biggest challenge is that I've lost a lot of my power.'

'Did the creatures take that away too, along with all your nice thoughts?'

'Yeah, something like that-- aside from how I can turn into a dog, which is just part of me now.' Padfoot balances the coin over his thumb, and then flicks it into the air, where it hangs spinning above them instead of falling back down. 'Levitation is one of the easiest spells to learn,' he murmurs, gazing intently at the coin.

Harry looks at Padfoot's hands, both of which are empty-- the left raised slightly, the right resting on his knee. 'You're not using a magic wand to do that,' Harry observes.

Padfoot reaches out and snatches the coin from the air. 'Yeah, that's right-- that's the point of doing this. Wands make channeling magic a lot easier, but the power and control still have to come from within.'

Harry pauses thoughtfully. 'So then, even if a regular person found a magic wand, they still wouldn't be able to do magic?'

'Mm, well, sometimes wands can hold a bit of residual power, or pull from latent energy in the surrounding landscape,' says Padfoot, now walking the coin across the backs of his fingers. 'So you'll hear about cases where a Muggle picked up a wand and it shot off some sparks or something like that-- but for the most part, yeah.' Padfoot folds his long fingers over the coin, curling his hand into a fist around it. 'And even if it does respond, that's not the same as proper spellwork-- they wouldn't be able to control it at all.' 

Padfoot turns his hand, and opens it palm-up-- and Harry blinks. The coin has vanished.

Harry grins up at him. 'You made it disappear! Just like the spell Mr Moony does when he's cleaning the dishes and takes all the bits of old food off.'

Padfoot laughs, and reaches out and plucks the coin from behind Harry's ear. 'It's not, actually-- this is what they call _Muggle Magic_.' He hands Harry the coin. 'We can't teach you any proper spells until you're a bit older, but I could show you some of these tricks, if you like.'

Harry looks down at the coin, and back up, his grin widening. 'Yeah, I'd like that.'

Padfoot's coin tricks turn out to be far more difficult than he makes them appear. Harry watches the swift and precise movements of Padfoot's long elegant fingers with wonder, and then fumbles the coin in his own small hands, but Padfoot isn't at all bothered that he's slow and clumsy (grinning and ruffling his hair where Aunt Petunia would have scowled and snapped) and it's hard to get frustrated when Padfoot is so kind and encouraging in spite of him not being very good at it.

After a while, they get up for breakfast-- Padfoot's energy has held out, and he offers to make fried eggs and toast. Harry watches him move around the kitchen, and tries not to fidget, unable to shake the feeling that he ought to be doing _something_ to help-- but Padfoot won't hear of it. He explains that it's his Dogfatherly Duty to make breakfast, and insists that Harry stay where he's sat and enjoy his cup of juice while he waits.

The Dursleys were always going on about what an awful burden Harry was, no matter how hard he worked at his chores or how careful he was to keep quiet and tidy and not be a bother. The idea that someone might _want_ to do something for him (that he could ever be worth the effort) is still alien to him, feels too good to be true, like a pleasant dream that will come to an abrupt end once Petunia comes to rap on his cupboard door to wake him for the morning chores...

A moment later, Padfoot slides two plates of fried egg onto the table (one for each of them) and sets the third plate with a stack of toast in the middle. He has already stuck the crispiest toast slice (with the slightly burnt edges) between his teeth, holding it there while he drops into his chair and gestures expansively at the meal.

Harry eyes the toast uncomfortably. 'Er-- I could have taken that one, you know... I don't mind that much, really.'

Padfoot goes cross-eyed, glancing down at his toast, then removes it from his mouth. 'Oh. D'you like them crunchy too, then? I could toast the rest longer, if you like.'

Harry blinks, and then reminds himself that Padfoot puts orange juice on his cornflakes, so maybe he does actually prefer burnt toast. 'I'd... rather have them lighter, if that's alright?' he says hesitantly, and pauses. 'Only I always got the burnt ones before. Aunt Petunia hates wasting food, and says I should be grateful for what I get.'

Padfoot's expression softens. 'Take whichever ones you want, Harry. I've always liked my toast crunchy, and never mind if it's a bit burnt-- so if you like the softer ones best, I'd say that works out rather nicely, wouldn't you?'

'...Okay. Er. If you're sure...'

Padfoot raises his eyebrows and pointedly takes another large bite of his toast, humming as he motions towards the plate. Harry selects a piece for himself, and accepts the jar of jam, and relishes the sweet sticky berry preserves he'd never been allowed back at the Dursleys' (he only knew the taste at all from licking the excess off the spreading-knife before washing it). Padfoot is, as always, completely indifferent to the fact that he's taking something nice, something extra-- Padfoot simply offers him things as though it's a given that Harry should have them, and doesn't even watch to make sure he doesn't take too much.

Padfoot finishes his toast and eggs quickly, and idly tilts his chair back on two legs-- after a moment he lets it drop back and sits straighter, staring intently at the open space over the table until a small orb of light pops into existence.

He catches sight of Harry watching, and smiles crookedly. 'So, Prongslet, what d'you think of that?'

'Is that another spell?'

'Yep-- just a simple light-charm. It's one of the first spells you'll learn.'

Harry looks back at the little orb-- it looks a bit like the puffballs dandelion seeds grow in, if dandelions were made of light, and as he watches he can see small traces of colour shimmering in it, red and gold, violet and green. '...Can I touch it?'

Padfoot arches an eyebrow at him. 'Dunno-- _can_ you?' he asks-- it sounds like a challenge.

Harry looks between Padfoot and the light, then tentatively reaches out-- but it bobs away from his fingertips as soon as they get close. He reaches out again, more quickly this time, and the light bounces higher in the air. Harry turns back to Padfoot, who appears to be trying not to smile. 'You're doing that on purpose, aren't you.'

'If you say so,' Padfoot responds mildly, lifting his glass to take a sip of his juice. 

Harry makes another grab for the light, thinking he might have a better chance of catching it while Padfoot is drinking, but once again it bounces back, hovering just beyond his reach. Padfoot is definitely grinning now, eyes gleaming brightly over the top of his glass. Harry holds very still for a few seconds, trying to look like he's grown bored with the game so he doesn't give himself away, before lunging quickly into his next attempt-- only this time his elbow hits his empty juice glass, knocking it to the floor.

Padfoot jumps at the noise, badly enough that some of his own juice spills down his jumper-- the light blinks out, the playful mood evaporating along with it. Harry stares down at the broken glass, his chest tight and his breath coming too fast, burning with shame.

'S-sorry,' he croaks, 'I'm so sorry, I--'

Padfoot jerks back to attention. 'No, Harry, no-- it's just an accident, right?' He moves swiftly to Harry's side, heedless of the broken glass on the floor. 'No fuss, okay?'

'You're... not angry with me?' he whispers, trying very hard not to let the tears spill over-- crying is one of the things that's only acceptable when Dudley does it; if Harry cries then he's a _sissy nancy boy who needs to man up_ (according to Uncle Vernon) or a _snivelling ungrateful brat_ (according to Aunt Petunia).

'No, _of course_ not-- I'm sure Moony will set it right as soon he's home; it'll take him about two seconds and it'll be good as new.' Padfoot pauses, rubbing the pad of his thumb across Harry's cheek. 'But even if we didn't have magic to fix things, it would _still_ be fine-- do you know why?'

Harry bites his lip, but he truly _can't_ think of anything, so after a moment's hesitation he reluctantly shakes his head.

'It's because it's just a mistake, and everyone makes mistakes sometimes,' Padfoot answers. 'So there's no sense in getting our knickers in a twist about it.'

Harry chews his lip. 'D'you really think so?' he whispers.

'Absolutely-- sometimes it's not so easy to put things back together when they've broken, and we just have to do our best to pick up the pieces so we don't get hurt walking on broken glass.' He puts his hands on either side of Harry's face, gives a shaky smile. 'And besides, cups are just _things_, and we can just fetch a new one from the cupboard if we want another glass of juice.'

'That's okay,' Harry mumbles politely. 'I've had enough for now.'

'Right.' Padfoot shoots back to his feet. 'I'll just clear this out of the way, and then we can play another game or read a book or whatever you like-- how's that sound?'

Harry fidgets as Padfoot starts poking around Moony's cupboards (presumably for a broom or something similar). 'Er, I can do it,' Harry says, starting to get up.

'I'm sure you can,' says Padfoot, gently but firmly pressing him back against the chair. 'But you shouldn't _have_ to, especially when you might hurt yourself.'

'It's just, I... I don't want to be a burden, that's all...'

'Harry, it's my job to help with things like this-- mine and Moony's. You're _not_ a burden, and you don't need to do anything to earn the right to stay with us because we love you and we want you here.'

'But--'

'Did they ever make your cousin work for his keep?'

'Well... no. Dudley gets everything he wants and never has to do chores.'

'Do you think that was fair? or that there's something so different between you and him that it was acceptable for them to treat you the way they did?'

'I...' Harry pauses. 'What do you think?'

'I think they're a bloody awful pair of wankers,' Padfoot says firmly, 'and what they did was _wrong_.' He pulls Harry into a hug. 'You deserve so much better.'

Harry hugs him back. 'You _are_ better.'

Padfoot gives a short laugh. 'Well, I try.' He pulls back, and wrinkles his nose. '...And now I've gone and got juice all over you too.'

'That's all right,' Harry says-- he's been far dirtier than the slight damp patch where he'd leant against Padfoot's jumper, after all, and the hug was more than worth a juice stain.

Padfoot seems to think otherwise, and lifts him up off the chair and heads for the washroom, telling him to wash up before going to Moony's room in search of clean shirts for both of them.

  
Once they've changed their clothes (Padfoot found a pair of faded t-shirts for them to wear) Harry decides to draw more pictures while Padfoot finishes cleaning up the glass in the kitchen. Soon enough, Padfoot joins him on the rug in front of the couch, asking to see what Harry has drawn.

Harry turns the page so that Padfoot can see his most recent set of wiggly snakes, and explains (with a painstakingly careful demonstration) how Mr Moony taught him to write _snake_, and also _Padfoot_ and _dog_. This finds them lying down side by side on the rug as they both attempt to draw dogs-- Padfoot holds his pen in his left hand instead of his right, which means they can both draw on Harry's pad of paper at the same time without getting too much in each other's way. Padfoot confesses that he isn't very good at drawing dogs either even though he is one a lot of the time, but Harry loves the raw energy of his sketches-- they're rough and very scribbly (nothing at all like Mr Moony's clean crisp drawings) but they look like they could jump off the page at any minute and run around the room.

Harry says as much, and then asks, 'Is that a thing that can happen, when magic people draw pictures?'

Padfoot laughs. 'Not that I know of, certainly not by accident-- but magical paintings can move, and even leave their own pictures to visit the ones next to them, and they can talk to you-- so I suppose you could probably charm a drawing like this to move around the paper. I don't know those spells, though. Or maybe it's a potion...'

'Mr Moony told me that there's a special potion that makes photos move,' says Harry. 'But none of them could talk, I don't think.'

Padfoot goes still. 'Did Moony show you pictures?'

Harry nods, sensing that this may be a delicate topic. 'He has some that have my parents in them. I'd never seen any pictures of my parents before, because Aunt Petunia didn't like them and didn't want to keep anything of theirs in the house.' She had plainly not, for that matter, wanted to keep Harry himself-- and he thinks he's just now beginning to understand that it was never because there was something wrong with _him_.

'Well... it's good that Moony held onto them, then. You've got a right to know... it was wrong of your Dursleys to keep that from you, no matter what they thought of your parents.'

Harry turns this over for a moment. 'Why _do_ they hate my parents so much? Why are they like that, if it's wrong?'

'Some people are just... bad. Some people don't need a reason to be awful.' Padfoot turns over, lying flat on his back. 'Petunia never got on with your mum-- or not since I knew her; maybe they were closer when they were kids. But Lily said that Tuney hated magic because it was something she couldn't have.'

Harry frowns down at his sketchpad. 'I think I'd be sad too, if I knew magic was real but couldn't do it myself. Only... I don't understand why she has to be _mean_ about it.'

Padfoot sighs. 'I couldn't say... it's not as though we choose whether we're born with magic or not, any more than you get to choose the colour of your eyes or who your parents are.' He falls quiet, runs a hand through his hair. 'Petunia... she and your mum _could_ have still found ways to share a part of our world-- there are plenty of nonmagical people who make it work. But Petunia chose to be angry and bitter instead, and used that as an excuse to treat _you_ poorly.' Padfoot turns back to look at Harry, his eyes silver-bright. 'There's no excuse for that.'

Harry nods solemnly, falling quiet for a moment as he traces his fingertip over one of Padfoot's running dog figures. After a moment, he glances up and asks, 'Do you like snakes, Padfoot?'

'Mm, well...' Padfoot sits up. 'I think it's a bit like what you said to me when we first met-- how before me you'd only met mean dogs that tried to bite you, so you were a bit frightened. I've only known snakes that were... not very nice. But maybe there are plenty of perfectly lovely snakes that I've just never had the chance to meet.'

'Oh... that makes sense.' Harry pauses. 'Well if you like I could show you the next time I meet a nice snake-- I used to find them sometimes in the back garden, and Aunt Petunia would shriek and hit them with the broom if she saw them even though most of them were just minding their own business and not doing anything to bother her at all.'

Padfoot shrugs and offers him a smile. 'Yeah, sure, why not-- I can promise not to hit them with a broom, at any rate.' 

'That's good,' says Harry, returning the smile.

Padfoot ruffles his hair. 'Might be a while before we find one, though-- I don't suppose there are a lot of wild snakes in the middle of London.'

Harry has to agree (he hasn't seen any on their walks through the park, and they prefer green spaces so he wouldn't expect to see any nearer to the flat). They fall back into companionable silence, and Padfoot soon picks up his pencil again, and Harry thinks it's very nice of him to be willing to give snakes another chance just because Harry is interested in them.

* * *

Remus returns to find Sirius and Harry lying on the rug with the drawing pad in front of them-- Sirius quickly jumps to his feet and explains the broken glass situation in the kitchen, and Harry gets up as well, watching intently as Remus casts a quick _reparo_, followed by a cleaning-spell to clear up any fragments Sirius might have missed in his initial sweep. 

With that taken care of, Remus sets about making a quick stir-fry for lunch (using up some leftover rice and older produce) while Harry animatedly describes all the new pictures he and Padfoot had spent the morning drawing. Sirius lets Harry do most of the talking, though his grey eyes remain sharp and engaged-- a conscious choice to simply watch and listen. Remus catches his eye and offers him a small smile (it has evidently been a good morning for him) and as Remus listens to Harry's chatter and offers the occasional comment, he can feel the tension begin to leave his own shoulders and back. This morning's work wasn't nearly as stressful or emotionally draining as dealing directly with the Dursleys had been, so Remus hadn't even noticed the stiffness until now, once he's feeling better for its absence.

The afternoon is spent playing Better Checkers and Gobstones and Exploding Snap, with a break for another walk to the park-- a bit of rain earlier in the day has left the grass muddy and dotted with puddles, which Padfoot and Harry can't seem to resist splashing through as they chase each other around the square. Remus makes a valiant effort to avoid the mud, but of course Padfoot decides to stand right next to him while shaking himself off (which Remus knows is definitely _not_ an accident) and by the time they head back to the flat, all three of them are rather more wet than dry and thoroughly splattered in mud.

Remus sends Harry straight into the bath, with a pointed scowl directed at Sirius (a silent warning that he had best stay put in the entry until after he's had a bath of his own, and woe betide him if he tracks mud all over the flat) but then Sirius _looks_ at him (with eyes of bright silver and a slight smile tugging at one corner of his mouth) and Remus can't even be properly cross with him. He never could stay angry with Sirius for very long, and it's even more of a lost cause now that it's become such a rare occurrence to see Sirius smiling like that...

'You're infuriating, you know,' Remus says mildly.

'It's a gift,' Sirius replies, winking cheekily at him.

Remus huffs out an exaggerated sigh and turns away, picking up a book from the pile on the small side table next to the door and opening it to the bookmarked page-- 

Or rather, this is what he intends to do, but in that moment the book is abruptly jerked from his hands. Remus makes a small outraged noise-- he'd washed his own hands while running the bath for Harry, but Sirius's are still filthy from running about as Padfoot, and Sirius _knows_ how Remus feels about mud and books-- only to stop, blinking, as he realises that Sirius's hands are not in fact anywhere near the book, which is currently plastered against the ceiling.

Remus looks back down at Sirius, who is wearing just the faintest hint of a smirk. 'Did you...?'

Sirius quirks one eyebrow and holds up his hands, a familiar gesture of mock innocence. 'Did I what?'

Remus feels a slow smile spreading across his face. 'Sirius, that's brilliant!'

Sirius shrugs and steps back as he releases the levitation spell (Remus only just manages to catch the book as it drops). 'Well, it's not much, yet... Only I thought you'd want to know it works, so you can tell me how right you were.'

Remus snorts at that. 'Of course I'm right-- only I didn't realise you'd worked it out so quickly.' His smile turns wry. 'But I suppose I _should_ have done; you've always been absurdly clever once you've put your mind to something.'

Sirius finally smiles in return-- only the barest hint of one, a subtle quirk of his lips that Remus isn't sure would have even registered to anyone else. '_You_ think I'm clever, Moony?'

'Of course I do, you wanker.' He sets the book back on the table. 'Have you only worked on levitation, then, or have you tried anything else yet?'

By way of answering, Sirius demonstrates his wandless light-spell-- it's not very bright (less so than the average first-year's _lumos_) but he can move it independently of his hands, which is rather impressive in its own right (as the basic _lumos_ spell remains attached to the caster's wand-tip, while an independent light-orb requires more advanced technique). Even considering that Sirius has always been uncommonly skilled with wandless and nonverbal spells, it shows a lot of improvement since their conversation the night before-- for someone like Sirius (who had breezed through all his classes in school with little effort) it must have been doubly frustrating to struggle with even the most basic spells, and Remus is glad to see him overcoming that.

Once Harry emerges from the bath (now sufficiently clean) Remus sends Sirius in next-- Sirius accepts Remus's offer for a disentangling charm on his hair while the tub fills, but then he nudges Remus out the door with the air of a man trying to conceal his own self-consciousness. It hasn't escaped Remus's notice that, even alone and with the door securely closed, Sirius has continued to shut off all the lights in the washroom while he bathes, as though he can't bear to see his own wasted flesh exposed, an unforgettable mark of everything he's lost. That is a sentiment which Remus finds all too relatable, though he never would have expected that _Sirius_ might ever come to feel the same way, such discomfort within his own skin. Remus only wishes there was something he could do to help.

That thought sticks with him all through dinner, lingers at the back of his mind as he reads Harry another story from Lyall's book, comes to rest in the narrow gap between them as he and Sirius brush their teeth, stood side by side at the sink almost close enough for their shoulders to touch-- Sirius takes the left side (just as he's always done when sharing sinks in the past, so their elbows won't knock together) and Remus notices that he has left the medicine cupboard over the sink ajar to tilt the mirror away from himself. This much is unfamiliar: this version of Sirius that goes out of his way to avoid his own reflection where once he had flaunted his natural good looks.

But for all that Azkaban has worn him down, his features are still undeniably his own, and Remus can't help but find him every bit as beautiful as the day they first met-- the sharp high cheekbones, the arch of his wild dark eyebrows and the soft feathering of his startlingly long eyelashes, the slight aristocratic curve along the bridge of his nose, the smooth angular cut of his narrow jaw...

Remus realises that Sirius has said something, and hastily spits and wipes his mouth. 'Er-- sorry?'

'Operation Hiding Harry,' Sirius says. There's a bit of toothpaste at the corner of his lips, his own brush still held loosely in his fingers. 'No trouble today?'

'No-- I broke in to Dursley's office,' says Remus. 'Altered some records, vanished others, and set up a few runic sigils at the entrances so that anyone who passes through between now and the next full moon will find they can't recall precisely when they last saw him-- and the sigils will dissolve on their own once the moon has passed, so we won't need to go back and remove the traces.'

'Mm... nice touch.' Sirius bends to rinse his mouth, his hair falling aside to expose the back of his neck, vertebrae standing out in prominent ridges. Remus pretends not to stare at the line they make, the deep shadows where they disappear below the collar of his jumper.

'...It's a bit crude, really, but I rather doubt anyone from our side will dig into it more deeply than that.' Remus quirks an eyebrow as Sirius glances up at him, still bent over the faucet. 'Most wizards are so inept at navigating Muggle bureaucracy that the Ministry would require a _special expert_ just to find the name and address of the firm where he worked.'

Sirius snorts, shaking out his hair as he straightens up-- some of the ends are damp from falling into the sink. 'True enough.'

'I'm planning to head back to Little Whinging early tomorrow morning-- I'll probably set up something similar to Confund all the neighbours... though I reckon I should avoid placing anything too close to Number Four, in case of latent wards.'

'You're very sly, Moony; I'm sure that'll do nicely.'

Remus can't help but smile. 'I certainly hope so.'

They lapse into silence, and Remus puts his toothbrush away and returns to the bedroom, with Sirius trailing after him. He's just reaching for his pyjamas when Sirius speaks up-- 

'Harry said you showed him pictures. From... before.'

'Er-- yes, the first night after you'd taken the sleeping draught.' Remus pauses. 'I didn't know if you would be ready for that sort of thing.'

'Mm...' Sirius glances at him. 'Were you?'

'For the most part... but I had years to sort through all that, years you didn't have.'

'It's not as though time stood still for me, Moony,' Sirius whispers, his eyes bleak.

'No,' Remus agrees. 'But you could hardly heal while you were in there.'

Sirius says nothing for a long moment, stood in the doorway as he silently fidgets with the hem of his jumper.

'Could I... see them?' he asks quietly.

'Of course,' says Remus. 'If you're sure...'

Sirius seems to fold in on himself. 'I'm not, really, I can't-- maybe this is a mistake. But I... I want to _remember_, Moony. Good things. It's all so far away...'

Remus starts to reach out, to take his hand, but then he stops and moves past Sirius, with only a quiet suggestion that Sirius should make himself comfortable while he fetches the photos.

Sirius has hardly moved when Remus returns with the envelope, now sat on the floor as though he'd simply slid down the wall. He accepts the photos as Remus sits next to him, though he doesn't spread them out all at once the way Remus had done for Harry-- instead he holds the stack carefully in both hands and flips through them one at a time, his expression stiff and inscrutable, saying nothing. Some of the pictures, he looks at for only a few seconds, others he spends whole minutes staring into-- Remus wonders what's going through his head during those long utterly still and silent moments, but he doesn't ask, doesn't try to see which ones are giving him pause for fear of crowding him-- this feels like an important process for him, something that should not be interrupted.

He reaches the beginning of the stack again, and stares at the image (one of Lily and James in Godric's Hollow) for several seconds more, then lowers his hands and lets them slip from his fingers, slouches back against the wall as his eyes fall closed. For a long agonising minute, he hardly appears to breathe.

'...Padfoot?' says Remus-- and when Sirius makes a faint noise in the back of his throat, Remus adds, 'Did it... help at all?'

'Dunno,' Sirius mumbles. He falls quiet, for long enough that Remus thinks that's all he means to say, then he suddenly opens his eyes and continues-- 'When I look at them... I can remember bits of things that happened-- the people, the places, sounds and smells and too-bright colour. But it's... it's like they're not _mine_. The things in my head. I'm only looking in on someone else's life, like watching one of those moving picture stories the Muggles make, but I can't... it's like I was never really there.'

'I know you were, Pads.'

Sirius gives a frustrated sigh. 'Yes, I do too-- I took a lot of the bloody things myself.' He gestures at the pictures. 'But it's... so far away.'

'Like another lifetime...?' Remus touches Sirius's wrist, with just the very tips of his fingers. 'If it helps... I don't think that's only an Azkaban effect. That life, what we all had back then... it feels far away to me too.' He reaches over to gather up the photos, and Sirius makes no move to stop him. 'We can't live in the past, Pads-- it would be madness to try.'

Sirius just gives a helpless sort of shrug, saying nothing.

'Oh-- there was one more, I almost forgot.' Remus gets up to fetch it from where he'd tucked it between the pages of a book on his bedside table, and returns to Sirius's side. 'Actually... I was wondering if you knew anything about this one; I'm not even sure where it even came from.'

Remus hands him the motorbike picture, and this time he sees emotion stir across Sirius's features-- a jumbled and highly potent burst that Remus isn't sure how to interpret.

'Pads, are you... did you remember something?'

'Lily,' Sirius says softly, brushing his fingers over the image, their laughing faces. 'Wasn't long after the wedding when she gave me this and said--' He breaks off abruptly, something strange in his expression. '...Nothing.' He glances up at Remus, the photo held carefully between two fingers. 'Can I...?'

Remus has a curious urge to say no, to snatch it back and jealously keep it for himself. 'Of course,' he says instead, his voice forced into a carefully mild tone. 'It's yours, isn't it?'

Sirius looks down at it again, then tucks it securely into his pocket. 'Sorry, I-- I think I need a minute,' he whispers, not looking at Remus. He turns into Padfoot and crawls into the corner, and doesn't respond when Remus touches his shoulder.

The photos were, Remus suspects, a terrible idea-- that last one most of all, for obscure reasons he cannot begin to guess at. He wonders again what it means, the significance of that unspecified moment on the motorbike and whatever Lily might have told Sirius-- but it certainly hadn't seemed like a _happy_ memory, and Remus isn't sure how to ask, doesn't want to pry into something that is evidently painful for Sirius.

In that moment he feels Lily's loss more keenly than he has in years-- he longs for her sensible nature, her solid unwavering friendship; he _misses_ her and he misses James and he wishes he knew how to help Sirius pull back out of whatever hole he's clearly fallen into.

* * *

Sirius stays a dog as Remus leaves for Privet Drive in the early hours of the morning; he lies on the rug beside the couch, gets up every so often to pace across the room, feeling restless and uneasy...

He tries to settle down, but his mind goes off in a thousand different directions; he remembers running with hard concrete tearing at the pads of his feet, running over cold snow, the drag of waterlogged fur, the saltwater washing over his tongue and down the back of his throat, burning his lungs... he feels the chill, cold and clammy, gets up again and paces erratically across the room, touching his nose to the walls, feeling at the spells...

When Harry wakes a few hours later, Sirius shifts human and asks hoarsely if cereal is all right-- and he must look every bit as awful as he feels, because Harry quickly agrees, and adds that he doesn't mind getting it for himself. Sirius feels the rush of emotion hit him like a direct punch from the Willow, like falling into a pit of Devil's Snare that chokes him and crushes his ribs, the pressure building at the backs of his eyes-- and he folds himself back into the Dog, unable to bear it. Perhaps anger was an easier emotion to deal with... but he knows he _can't_ do that anymore, can't give himself over to blind rage.

He can't allow himself that old unnamed _longing_, either, but at least that is beyond the Dog's capacity for understanding.

Fortunately, Remus's errands that day do not take too long; he returns around noon, and takes one look at Sirius and fetches the potion bottle, coaxing Sirius into lying down in his bed instead of simply curling up on the rug-- the potion has already kicked in and Sirius is too exhausted to argue, simply falling onto the threadbare blankets and passing out within seconds of hitting the mattress, sinking into the familiar warm scent of Remus...

Sirius dips in and out of feverish dreams, little more than fragmented static images-- _the cottage at Godric's Hollow with half its roof caved in; James's glasses on the floor with one lens cracked; Lily's red hair strewn across the rug in front of Harry's crib; the shuttered and painful look on Moony's face the last time they'd spoken before the Fidelius was cast and Wormtail's loathing sneer in the instant before he transformed and the horrible sickening realisation that everything important to him had been obliterated-- he's clawing and screaming at the cold indifferent walls of his cell, crying 'no I would never' and 'it's my fault' and 'the rat got away' and 'don't touch me' and 'let me out let me out let me out'_\--

It's dark when he wakes, still human-shaped and thoroughly tangled up in the sheets of Remus's bed-- he feels clammy and vaguely feverish, likely the result of neglecting to shift before he fell asleep. He rolls to his feet and shuffles along the hall and into the darkened washroom, sticks his head under the cold spray of the shower until the sick feeling has subsided.

He presses the water out of his hair as best he can and shakes his head out. _Remus_. If he's been in the bed all this time, Remus wouldn't have had anywhere to lie down...

Sirius leaves the washroom, padding towards the dim light hovering near the table-- Harry is already asleep on the couch, while Remus is sat beneath the _lumos_ orb with a book and a mug of steaming cocoa. 

Remus glances up as Sirius draws near, offering him a smile and flicking his wand to cast a _muffliato_ around them. 'Sleep well, Pads?'

Sirius shrugs noncommittally, dropping into the nearest empty chair. '...Forgot to ask how it went, earlier.'

'Oh-- exactly as planned. I placed sigils on all the major streets near Privet Drive-- anyone who enters or leaves the area will be affected so that they won't quite recall when they last saw the Dursleys.' Remus slides his mug towards Sirius. 'It's over, Padfoot.'

'...Until someone realises they've vanished,' Sirius murmurs darkly, breathing in the cocoa's steamed-milk scent.

'Well. Yes. That much is unavoidable, I'm afraid.' Remus sits a little straighter. 'But we'll deal with that when it comes-- all right, Pads? In the meantime, we've done all we can.' He nods towards the mug. 'Have some of that.'

Sirius takes a sip from the mug, and feels the chocolate warm him from within-- Moony has always made the best cocoa (to the point where Sirius is sure it must be magic, though Remus has always denied it) and it helps to centre him. '...The wand,' he murmurs. 'We've still got to get rid of it, if you've finished all the spells.' 

Remus nods, catching Sirius's eye. 'It can wait a day or two.'

Sirius rolls his eyes. 'I'm not about to go straight back to sleep.' He takes another sip of cocoa. 'What time is it?'

Remus casts a quick _tempus_. '...Half ten.'

'See? Plenty of time to take care of this before dawn.'

'If you're sure.' Remus retrieves the spare wand from his pocket. 'Or... you could always hold onto it-- have one of your own.'

'Would defeat the purpose of using an untraceable spare if we kept it.' Sirius passes the mug back to Remus and stands up, taking the wand delicately and trying not to wince at the way the wood pulses unpleasantly beneath his fingertips. '...Doesn't like me anyway.'

Remus grimaces at that. 'Fair point.'

Neither of them says anything more-- no further warnings, no mention of precisely what Sirius is planning (as they have tacitly agreed that it's for the best if Remus can truthfully say he doesn't know, in the event that things take a turn for the worse and Dumbledore or the Aurors think to question him). Sirius returns to the washroom and changes into the same set of dark clothes he'd worn to fetch the wand in the first place-- at the door, Remus gives him a pointed look (_be careful_) and Sirius responds with an eye-roll (_just go to bed already_), and then he pockets the guilty wand and slips away into the night.

* * *

Remus is still awake when Sirius returns a couple of hours later-- this time, his arrival is near-silent, slipping past Harry in the main room without waking him and padding along the hall, pausing at the threshold of the bedroom door-- Remus might not have noticed his approach at all, if not for his wolfish sense of smell.

'It's done,' Sirius says softly, as though it has only just dawned on him that now he truly hasn't the faintest idea what comes next, how to exist in a state of relative safety and normalcy. He leans against the door-frame, the skin around his eyes bruised dark. 'That's... really it, then...'

Remus lets out a deep breath. 'I suppose it is.'

Sirius slides bonelessly down the wall on his next exhale. '...Buggering _fuck_,' he mumbles, barely coherent, and after a moment he looks helplessly up at Remus, as though in search of an answer.

'You should get up off the floor,' Remus says. 'You'll give yourself a crick in the neck, slouching like that.'

Sirius huffs out a sigh and flops down on his side, shifting forms as he sprawls out on the floor. His pale eyes remain fixed on Remus's face as he moves-- their silver is always stunningly bright, but it's almost unsettlingly so against the dog's midnight-black fur, an uncommonly pale colour for such a dark animal. It's probably no wonder he was once mistaken for the Grim-- they had all laughed about it, then, but now the comparison hits a little too close to home. Remus shivers, remembering how Wormtail had woven many such details into his subtle web of lies, making Remus doubt his instinctive trust of Sirius, poisoning his memories of his closest friend...

Remus pats the duvet at his side. 'Come sit with me, Pads,' he says quietly, hoping his tone doesn't betray his neediness. Padfoot blinks at him, then crosses the room and jumps lightly onto the bed, pacing in a tight circle before settling across Remus's legs. Remus smiles, his hand finding its way down to brush through the dog's coarse fur, and after a moment he snaps his fingers to flip the light switch, plunging them into darkness.

  
Over the next few days, they begin to settle into something of a routine-- mornings are primarily devoted to Harry's 'lessons' in reading and writing, though Remus makes sure to incorporate other fields of study as well, to keep them fun and interesting (this is how he remembers his own parents homeschooling him: asking questions and guiding him through the answers, demonstrating how each new piece of information connects to other things he'd previously learnt about). After lunch, they play games in the flat and go for walks, always careful to avoid busy areas while outside, keeping the concealment spells securely in place.

Sirius seems most like himself while out running and playing as Padfoot, though he remains vigilant in a way he never was Before, always watching Harry and making sure no strangers get too close. He still refuses to sleep at the same time as Remus, and he is prone to abruptly disengaging while human-shaped, going oddly distant as though he's forgotten precisely where (and when) he is-- an Azkaban symptom which is likely exacerbated by his ongoing insomnia and inability to sleep without taking the potion... and the fact that he still isn't sure what to do with this odd domesticity they've fallen into. Remus isn't either, but he figures if he can fake it long enough it'll start to feel more natural to all three of them.

Without Harry to keep them focused, Remus isn't sure how they would have managed-- every day is a challenge for Sirius, and Remus hasn't the faintest idea how to help, so it's a great relief to see his eyes light up whenever Harry speaks, how he listens with rapt attention when Remus reads to Harry in the evenings. In those moments, the sheer intensity of Sirius's quicksilver eyes is overwhelming-- Remus remembers this from back in school, how Sirius was content to sit still and simply listen to his friends talk for hours on end when ordinarily he was a ball of wild restless energy, but now there's a strange ravenous _edge_ to it, like a starving man sat before a feast...

Perhaps he shouldn't be surprised-- he can't imagine that Azkaban offers its inmates much in the way of intelligible conversation... and he hasn't forgotten how Sirius arrived convinced that Remus could only hate him. Perhaps their reading-hour is so captivating to Sirius because the mundane simplicity of it was lost to him for so long-- a human voice, neither screaming in anguish nor raving in madness, only Remus speaking softly in his common Welsh accent (which he'd once felt so self-conscious about, until halfway through first year when Sirius had off-handedly declared that it was _like music_ and Remus hadn't had the heart to disagree because no part of him had ever been so unconditionally called _beautiful_ before, especially not by someone as incomparably stunning as Sirius Black). Perhaps, to Sirius, the sound of Remus's voice is one of the few tangible things linking past to present.

It's such a fragile balance, and one Remus is loath to interrupt, but all too soon he is forced to confront the unfortunate reality of his rapidly-dwindling savings-- their latest grocery trip (on the third afternoon since Sirius got rid of the spare wand) has reduced his stash of Muggle pounds to a last few crumpled notes, and his Gringotts account isn't much better off, with barely a dozen galleons remaining from his last editing job. Remus has little choice but to talk to Sirius and sort something out, as he has just over half a month to scrape together July's rent, not to mention enough for food... and Harry still needs new clothes at some point, and the bottle of sleeping potion is nearly empty... Remus waits until Harry has gone to bed, then steels himself and approaches Sirius to explain the situation.

Sirius listens, his expression flat and inscrutable, until Remus has finished. 'Moony,' he says quietly, intensely. 'I _gave you_ my vault key.' He steps closer, too close, glaring up at Remus. 'And you have quite plainly have _not_ spent all of Uncle Alphard's gold while I was locked up, or you might actually own some clothes that are not full of holes, which means that we _do_ in fact have _plenty of fucking money_.'

'_You_ have money,' Remus replies-- he should have known it would circle back to this, just as it _always_ does. 'I don't want--'

'Fuck's sake, Moony! This is _not_ about your fucking _pride_.' Sirius grips him by the wrists, forces him back against the wall. 'Remus Lupin, I am _telling_ you to go withdraw money _on my behalf_, so that I can feed _my_ godson. I will not accept your _charity_, or your bloody self-sacrificing shite, or whatever the fuck else you've got running through your thick head, you absolute wanker.' His fingers tighten on Remus's wrists, and he continues in a low dangerous voice, 'I _know_ I'm a useless sodding heap of rubbish, so at the very least let me pay for the fucking _groceries_\-- it's not as though I'm _good_ for anything else.'

Remus lets out a deep breath. 'Sirius... you must know that I don't think you're rubbish, or useless.'

'Then stop going about this like you need to do everything yourself!' Sirius releases him, throwing his hands into the air. '_Honestly_, Remus, what are the chances you _could_ support three people, even if we _didn't_ have a nice vault stuffed full of gold?'

Remus winces. _Next to none_, if he's truly being honest-- _But_\--

He pinches the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath. 'Sirius... I _can't_ just walk into Gringotts and request access to an account belonging to a notorious recently escaped convict!'

'I don't see why not,' says Sirius, infuriatingly calm.

'Because someone is bound to notice! If word of this gets back to the Ministry--'

'Moony. They _won't_ find out-- as long as you're discreet about it, which I know you're perfectly capable of being-- only the Goblins will know the vault was accessed, and _they_ won't tell the Ministry a single bloody thing. It's all just business to them, innit? Wizarding laws don't concern them.'

Remus chews his lip. 'You're _absolutely positive_ about that?'

Sirius rolls his eyes. 'Look-- you've got a copy of my vault key, and I listed your name on that account back before everything went to shite, just in case. It's all very by-the-book, at least according to the Goblin Nation-- in fact, I could access some of the funds remotely if I chose to, and they wouldn't give a rat's arse that I am, as you say, a _notorious recently escaped convict_.' Sirius shrugs. 'Only problem with _that_ is, what we need is Muggle Money for basic groceries and that can't be done as a direct payment, and you haven't got an owl anyway.'

Remus blinks at him, a bit stupidly. '...How would that even work? I mean, how would they know it's really you?'

'Blood, mostly-- given as a signature or even a thumbprint. There's an identity spell they have for it-- old Goblin magic.' Sirius pauses. 'Of course, blood-magic has gone a bit, er, _out of vogue_ these days, so I reckon it's not as widely used as it used to be. Goblins don't care about what Polite Wizarding Society finds acceptable, though; they'll go on doing as they've always done.'

'I suppose so,' Remus mumbles vaguely.

'Right, so that's settled it, then? You'll head over to Gringotts first thing tomorrow?'

Remus sighs. 'Yes, all right. But listen, Sirius-- I _can't_ just stop working entirely, not without taking the risk of someone noticing that I'm suddenly getting money from nowhere. At the very least, I intend to keep up with the freelance research and editing work-- it's flexible enough and not physically demanding, and I can do it from home.'

Sirius nods. '...Yeah. That sounds all right. Good for you, too, to have something intellectually stimulating to look forward to.'

Remus snorts at that. 'Oh, not all of them are what I'd call _intellectually stimulating_, precisely-- but at least it's honest work, and pays well enough when I can find it.'

'Well, just so long as you...' Sirius runs a hand through his hair. 'Look, Moons, I _know_ you hate asking for help, especially when it's a money problem. I just... don't want to see you working yourself half to death when there's an easier way.' He reaches up, his fingertips brushing along Remus's collar, and he looks so painfully _earnest_ that Remus can't quite meet his gaze. 'We're partners, right?'

Remus's mouth goes dry, that soft gentle tone sending shivers down his spine-- but of course Sirius could never mean it _like that_. Remus shoves it down, buries it in the deepest recesses of his soul, and nods. 'Of course... I understand. I'll try to be better about all of this.'

A little of the tension leaves Sirius's shoulders, and he lets go of Remus's shirt, a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. 'I've got the gold and you've got your lovely not-an-escaped-convict face-- together, we can conspire to buy groceries.'

'Quite the criminal operation, aren't we.'

'_There's_ my Moony,' Sirius says fondly, stepping back. 'Tomorrow, then?'

'I'll go to Diagon Alley first thing,' Remus promises, and the easy smile he receives in return is easily worth sacrificing a bit of his pride.

  
The next morning, Remus wakes to Harry's hesitant prodding at his shoulder-- a hard-won victory, to assure him that he can always wake one of them if he needs anything. But Harry usually goes to Sirius with his nightmares or other concerns (as he's the lighter sleeper and is always awake as soon as Harry's up) which probably means that Sirius himself _is_ the problem.

'How's Padfoot?' Remus asks as he sits up. 'Bad morning?'

'He was fine until he started reading the paper,' Harry answers. 'D'you reckon something's happened?'

'Bugger,' Remus mutters, rolling out of bed. 'Er-- I'm sure it's fine,' he adds quickly, careful to keep his voice even, pulling on his dressing gown and socks instead of dashing out to the main room at once-- his heart is racing and he's terrified that they've been found out, but he knows that any outward sign of panic will only frighten Harry, and he's had two decades' worth of practise at keeping calm under pressure. 'Why don't you draw us another picture while I have a word with Padfoot?'

He holds his breath, lets it out only when Harry nods and accepts the drawing pad and pencil Remus has summoned from the other room. No fear, no panic. Remus ruffles his hair and walks out towards the main room, gently closing the door behind him.

Remus finds Sirius sat at the table, staring down at the _Daily Prophet_ just as Harry had suggested he would be. His eyes are blank and disbelieving, and Remus lets out a breath-- if he had to put a name to that expression, he'd probably go with 'bewildered', so it's probably not any immediate danger after all. Sirius has always responded to danger with wild spitfire anger, lightning-fast action and reaction. This is something else.

'All right, Pads?' Remus says gently.

Sirius doesn't look up right away. 'Wally's dead,' he murmurs, so quiet Remus can only just make it out (and still isn't entirely sure who he's talking about). He sounds shaken, utterly lost.

But when Remus goes to get a closer look at what turns out to be the obituary page, it's not hard to see which one caught Sirius's eye: 

_Walburga Black_. His mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Walburga Black canonically died in 1985 (same year as this fic); I don't think there was any indication of the exact time of year but in the context of this story I imagine it was the shock of her disgraced son's escape from prison that did her in (at least a few months earlier than she would have died in canon).    
also, I made a writing tumblr! idk exactly what I'll do with it yet but it's [@dusk-writes](https://dusk-writes.tumblr.com/) if you want to chat c: 


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